


Paint

by emmettcadrian



Series: States [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare is important, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Bath Sex, Biting, Breathplay, Car Sex, Consensual Non-Consent, Dildos, Dom/sub, Edging, Fellatio, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Public Sex, Rimming, Spanking, Vibrators, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6738517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmettcadrian/pseuds/emmettcadrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You alright?" Enjolras asked.</p><p>Grantaire whimpered, nodding furiously; mouth agape as he shifted his hips again. </p><p>"Good boy," Enjolras replied, and Grantaire shivered again, pressing his mouth to the bedcovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Were Tryin' (But We're Tryin' No More)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vivalataire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivalataire/gifts).



**_A bit of fun._ **

It wasn't like Enjolras to be nervous, and were Grantaire not there; were he _not_ sitting there on the end of the bed and staring up at E—holding the item that was currently in question—he _certainly_ would not have believed it possible.

_**Something different.** _

There was a golden confidence in Enjolras that made the man always see entirely unflappable: a confidence and want of self that meant he would never be lacking, and able to do anything he set himself to—but Grantaire was there and Enjolras was nervous and it was almost endearing to see him so...shaken? Nervous? Conflicted? What was the word he was looking for? _Never mind, never mind_. Grantaire smiled lightly, watching E's mouth move as he explained himself away. 

_**Though we might...try?** _

They were comfortable together, having slid into their particular dynamic with ease. Perhaps it was a niche arrangement; somewhat _cliche_ in its happening, but neither man was complaining when they were fucking each other almost _every_ night in a gentle frenzy. Neither man could complain when they were fulfilling that which each individual wanted, and were doing so in comfort and style. Introducing each other to their relative proclivities was going to be somewhat nerve-wracking, they knew, but both were devoted to it, as well as each other, and had not left their bedroom—or bathroom or kitchen or lounge space—ever feeling dissatisfied with their erotic undertakings.

**_Will you?_ **

The object in question was _quite_ small, yet seemed so _very_ large. A pastel-coloured object that was flared at the bottom and topped by a rounded tip. Grantaire hadn't understood why Enjolras seemed nervous. They had tried dildos before, with mutual enjoyment, and E _knew_ that all he had to do was to ask; was to vocalise to him how and where and in what position he was wanted, and it was all _go_ from there, until they tired out or Enjolras decided that Grantaire needed to wait a while, which he would do, and—

"...Grantaire?"

He jumped slightly; startled by the sound of his name, and looked back up at Enjolras.

"Yeah?"

The man held it out again, almost nervously. 

"Well?"

Grantaire smiled; nodding slightly, and leaned back on his elbows.

" 'Course I will-"

"-for as long as I've asked?'

Length of time had never been an issue between them before. Why did he seem so...

"Yes. Yes! I will-," R nodded, spreading his legs against the cover; stressing his second assent to the question, seeing as Enjolras still seemed doubtful about his consent, and he really was keen to know why the man seemed so _fixed_ on this particular dildo. It was of average weight and colour and would fit inside him nice and snug; a tight fit when he was bundled up in his pants and jeans, but a constant pressure nonetheless; one that drove him to distraction those nights that E had asked him to use it during their weekly dinners, and shyly asking him to wear it to their meetings or whenever they met Ferre for a drink was another one of those conversations that had his cock half-hard when Enjolras was mid sentence, with _no_ sign of the adjective in sight—

"Good."

Now _that_ was suspicious. That smile; that wolfish grin spreading across that face had Grantaire's own heating up at the implications, even as E stepped forward with the dildo; hand sneaking into his pocket to retrieve the lube, and, rolling onto his stomach to present his arse to his lover with greedy expectation, idly wondered what it was that E was _really_ planning, but there was the soft squelch of the small bottle as he coated his fingers, and Enjolras was murmuring at him to breathe deeply before the press of his damp fingers at that tight ring of muscle and _uh—_

"Alright?" E's voice was soft to his ears, even as his fingers gently slid in and out of Grantaire's arse.

"Fine," He replied shortly, toes curling; right hand bunching the covers. 

That pressure on his arse disappeared and the bottle squelched again; that steady press returning to his arse as Enjolras pressed three fingers, liberally coated with lube, deep inside him, and _ah—_

There was pressure at R's hip as E placed a steadying hand on him; holding him in reassurance, as well as to keep him still as he curled the tips of his fingers against that small knot and Grantaire _writhed_ ;absolutely _writhed_ , which was something he thought only reserved for the heroine in a Mills and Boone novel, and had never found himself doing until they had begun their affair and he was either flat on his back with E's tonguing curling in his arse, or was flat on his stomach with E's bottoming out, deep inside him, and _ugh—_

 _"Fuck"_ Grantaire muttered, pressing his forehead to the cover.

"What was that?" Enjolras asked, from somewhere behind him; fingers curling against R's prostate, and _a_ _hh—_

"Fuck" he repeated, biting his lip as fresh perspiration blossomed on his forehead. 

"Later, perhaps," came the droll reply, as Enjolras slid his fingers from R's arse; Grantaire pressing his cheek to the sheet, desperately trying to steady his breathing. 

 _Later, perhaps_. The dry reply was a promise of filthier things to come, and Grantaire shuddered as he rocked his hips, pressing his full cock to the mattress. 

"You alright?" Enjolras asked.

Grantaire whimpered, nodding furiously; mouth agape as he shifted his hips again. 

"Good boy," Enjolras replied, and Grantaire shivered again, pressing his mouth to the bedcovers.

 _Good boy_. He was. He _was_ a good boy. Those words made R _shiver_ ; made him _whimper_ , and he felt himself harden _further_ against the bedcovers. Closing his eyes, Grantaire clenched his fingers in the bedcover, caught between the hand and the press of the sagging mattress. The pressure was steady and sure and made him make those impossible sounds; groans and gasps and moans that came from somewhere deep inside him, and he could have cried when those fingers disappeared, and his moan of disproval as well as the way he rocked his hips illustrated his disappointment at their removal, but they returned with a reassuring _**ssh**_ from Enjolras; returned, with something _larger_ and _thicker_ and **_oh God please_** something _less_ yielding than a cock and altogether _gorgeous_ -

" _Fuck_ me" Grantaire blurted, clenching his eyes shut, "Please, God, fuck _me_ -"

" _Later_ , I said," Enjolras repeated, a breathy chuckle escaping him, "-now-"

He pet Grantaire's flank, and placed a hand on his lower back. 

"Sit up-"

"-God, E, I _can't_ -"

"-you can sit up now, sweet-"

Grantaire rolled onto his back, panting. It was as if he had run the Boston Marathon; as if he had run Marathon _itself_. 

"Well?"

He opened his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead.

"How does it feel?" Enjolras asked, looking down at him. 

Grantaire looked down at his cock: flushed, the head pulled back to reveal the leaking tip, and curving up towards his stomach. The dildo felt hard inside him; as if he were sitting on a wooden cock. It pressed up against his prostate, and felt as if he were being fucked from the inside out.

"How-" he gulped, pressing his hand to his face, "-how do you _think_ it feels?" 

"Tell me," Enjolras demanded, a feral smile breaking out across his face; placing his hands on Grantaire's spread thighs.

"I-"

_"Tell me-"_

"Good," Grantaire croaked, closing his eyes again, "-it feels _so fucking good_ I can't-"

"Can you stand?"

"What?"

"Can you stand up?" Enjolras asked.

"I-" He wasn't entirely sure if he could; if he _wanted_ to-. 

Enjolras held out his hands, indicating that Grantaire should take them, and be helped to his feet. He did so, manoeuvring himself to the edge of the bed, and placing his trembling legs on the worn carpet. Enjolras kept his promise, and locked their hands together to bear the man's weight. Grantaire stood before him, shaking in his arms. Standing up wasn't so bad, though he did believe he could feel every curve of the cock inside him. 

"Hmmm" Enjolras murmured, looking down at Grantaire's erection. It brushed against his shirt, leaving a smear of pre-come against the hem. 

If he did not have a fake cock in his arse, Grantaire would have had the grace to blush. He opened his mouth to say so, but-.

"Get dressed"

"What?"

"Get dressed. We're going to the bar. To meet the others?"

"What, like this?" Grantaire demanded, looking down at himself.

"Of course," Enjolras shrugged, "-why not?"

Grantaire bit his tongue, and looked about the small room for his jeans.

 

* * *

 

_**A bit of fun, he said.** _

For what felt like the umpteenth time, Grantaire shifted in his chair; his fingers clenching the edge of the table, bottom lip clenched between his teeth. Were he not careful, he would break the soft skin on the inside, and taste blood again. 

_**Something different, he said.** _

It was as different as it could get. Minding his business, chatting to Ferre, when out of the blue the thing inside him had buzzed; had vibrated like his iPhone on silent and he had yelped loudly, almost leaping out of his chair, and had slammed his knee into the underside of the table. Terre had stared, asking what was the matter with him-had he seen a ghost? Had someone walked over his grave? What? And E, that bastard, had-without missing a beat-reached into his pocket and drawn out Grantaire's phone, affecting a bored voice.

"How many times will you forget your damned phone today, Grantaire?" as if he _had_  just received a text and it had buzzed against his leg and just scared the ever-living-fuck out of him, and Ferre had laughed at him, and turned away to answer Jehan's inquiry, and Grantaire was left shaking in his spot, fingertips clenching the edge of his chair, and-

"What the fuck?" He whispered, voice dipping low, "Enjolras, what was tha-"

Another deep buzz from deep inside him, and he gasped, right hand clenching his thigh. 

"Fuck" he whimpered, looking down at his lap; quite ready to praise a God he wasn't sure existed for the table, which obscured his erection from view. He was hard, so very hard, and the buzz against his prostate was driving him out of his mind.

He looked over at E, staring at him with a smug smile on his face; his left hand in his coat pocket. 

"What the hell?" Grantaire demanded, "What was th-"

The buzzing began again, and a whine pitched from deep in his throat, and he fought to keep his mouth clamped shut. 

"Do you like it?" Enjolras asked, softly; leaning towards Grantaire, "Do you?"

"Like?" Sweat dampened Grantaire's face again, as he squirmed in his seat, _"Like?"_

"It-," Enjolras murmured, his mouth almost on Grantaire's ear, "- _t_ _his_ -"

He pressed his finger down on the button; left hand wrapped 'round the small remote he had in his pocket, and his smirk deepened as Grantaire visibly shuddered again.

 _**Will you,** _ **he asked** _**, in** _ **that** _**voice...** _

"Careful-," Enjolras muttered, smirking. Grantaire shot him a dirty look, and swallowed heavily.

"Careful?" _Christ_ , was that _really_ his voice?

"You don't want anyone asking questions, now, do you?"

"Questions?" Grantaire stuttered out, hand clenching his thigh again. 

"About _you_ -," E smirked, and placed his hand on Grantaire's cock, "-about _this_ -," and clenched his hand and _ah-_

Grantaire's hips bucked upwards into that burst of pressure, biting down on his bottom lip.

"Ssh," Enjolras shushed, gently, moving his hand; turning to face the table.

" _Sssh_ your fucking _self_ -" Grantaire hissed, squirming in his chair, "-you don't have a fucking _vib_ -"

The dildo buzzed again, and he slammed his fist down on the table. The thud drew the attention of the patrons, and Enjolras looked sideways at him. 

"Calling us to order, eh?" Ferre grinned. The rest of the table laughed. 

 _I'm so close I'm so close I'm so_ fucking _close._

Grantaire swallowed heavily, and glanced down at his jeans. The bulge at his groin was embarrassingly noticeable; the tip of his cock leaking through the thick material, a damp stain slowly spreading down his zip. His pants were damp, his jeans were damp, and was so close to coming it made his left hand shake. All he had to do was take himself in hand and, with a few discreet clenching rubs, would _come_. 

Ferre started the meeting, and they all leaned in to him; crowding the table excitedly. 

"Don't think about it," Enjolras muttered.

"About what?" Grantaire said, hoarsely; unaware his left hand hand crept up his thigh, towards his cock.

"About that-," Enjolras murmured, indicating to R's lap, "-do not think it-"

"It?"

"Don't _touch-_ " Enjolras hissed.

"I need to-" Grantaire whined, his voice almost cutting into the din of the Amis' conversation; sentence dropping away at Enjolras pressed the button in his pocket and that hateful buzz coursed through Grantaire's body again. He whimpered, clenching his teeth as he felt himself soak into the fabric of his jeans.

 _Come. I need to come. Oh, God, I_ have _to come._

"I want to come" Grantaire whispered, clenching his thighs, "please, Enjolras, I need-"

"I know you do, and the answer is _no-_ "

That hateful, bastard buzzing inside him again, and Grantaire dug his nails into his thigh.

"-not _yet_."

Enjolras turned back to the others, intent on joining in, as Grantaire reached for the glass on his right and gulped whatever was in it down quickly.

"Want another?" Courfe asked, nudging him.

"N-no, thanks" He replied, wiping his mouth with the ball of his hand.

"You sure?"

"Ye-yeah," R nodded; his left hand clenched into a fist beneath the table, with which he chuckled against his thigh. 

"Enjolras-" the man looked at Courfeyrac, "-d'you want anything?"

"No, thanks-" E said, glancing at Grantaire. His left hand strayed back to his pocket. 

They chatted; Courfeyrac circling the table with their next drink order, even as Enjolras probed the button with his finger, and Grantaire bit into his inner cheek, tasting blood.

"-whiskey with no ice for you, Ferre. E didn't want a drink-"

"-nothing at the moment, anyway-"

"-and Grantaire?"

He was coming. He knew he was. God, he was _so hard_ in his jeans he felt like he'd burst the seams. So hard and so wet and so _desperate_ to feel himself spasm under E's hands as they rutted against each other on the bed; a tangle of limbs and hands and teeth and tongue and kissing and both coming onto each other as-

"Grantaire?" Courfe asked, again, waving his hand in front of the man's face, "You sure you don't want anything?"

-as they pulled at their clothing and ground onto each other and swore breathlessly as he came in a wet rush on E's thigh-

"Grantaire?" Courfe nudged him as that buzzing coursed through his body, and he jumped in surprise.

"No," He barked, drawing blood in little half-moon circles on his wrist as he pinched it.

Courfe and Ferre and Enjolras stared at him; a half-smile playing on E's smug bastard face.

"Are you okay?"

"I think he needs some air-" E suggested, nudging R with his knee.

"You're all sweaty-"

"Air," He gulped, bunching his coat at his side and standing; the coat obscuring his current condition from the table, "I just need some fresh air-"

"I might have a cigarette," Enjolras said casually, standing from the table and nodding to each member, "-so I might duck out, too-"

"Just be back soon, hmm?"

"Yeah, yeah" He waved; a casual hand on R's lower back as the wandered across the bar, and out the back door.

The cool air was heaven on Grantaire's flushed and sweaty skin, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief; wiping a hand down his face. The press of his cock in his jeans, however, made him wince, slightly, and he leaned against the wall, swallowing heavily.

Enjolras merely watched him, his eyes on R's tented jeans.

"I need to come."

Their eyes met. 

"Please, Enjolras, I need-" R's voice shook, and nearly died, "-I need to come _now_ -"

"I know-"

"- _right_ now. Please. _Right now-"_

"I know you do-"

Enjolras cupped Grantaire's skull, running his fingers through the soft hairs at the back of the man's neck; Grantaire rolling his head against the man's fingers, sighing.

"I want to come," he whimpered, pressing himself to Enjolras.

"I know, baby-"

"Please" R whimpered, pressing his cock against E's hip.

Once he started rubbing, started rocking himself against Enjolras, there was no stopping. He felt a surge of pleasure in his balls, gasping as thrust against him. Grantaire plastered himself against Enjolras, rubbing furiously; a deep grunt rising from his chest, knowing that he could come like this-

Enjolras reached down and settled his hands on R's hips, pushing him back slowly.

"Don't-"

"Grantaire-"

"Don't, please-"

"-not now, and-"

"-yes, _now_ -"

"-and not _here_ ," Enjolras said, smoothing R's hair with a gentle sweep of his hand, "-not out near the bins like it's a fucking _booty call_ , alright?"

Grantaire swallowed, trying not heave out the sob that was clawing at his chest.

"We'll go back home; back to our bed, and-" He looked at R, waiting for him.

"-and-"

"and-?"

"You'll fuck me," Grantaire finished.

"Right into the mattress. I promise." 

 

* * *

 

Work title taken from [Paint](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7pB1IcnK3Q), by The Paper Kites; chapter titles are the lyrics.


	2. It's Cold on the Floor, Cold on the Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You'll fuck me," Grantaire finished.
> 
> "Right into the mattress. I promise." 
> 
> Enjolras must keep his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [continues on from chapter one]
> 
> Please raise a glass to the Muse; to Hannah.

_"You'll fuck me," Grantaire finished._

_"Right into the mattress. I promise."_

 

* * *

A premature promise—Enjolras lazily tonguing that space behind Grantaire's ear—having been made _before_ he realised just how _desperate_ and _aroused_ the man was—the two of them gently thrusting against each other in the front hall, jeans unbuckled and unzipped—and he was quite sure that, at the rate they were going, Grantaire's _thorough fucking_ would be against E's hastily locked bedroom door or on their hands and knees across the worn carpet in his room. There was a breathless suspense to their slow rutting; both caught in the whirlwind of their arousal and chasing the tail of something _so much larger than themselves_ in the moment, unable to know if E might suddenly snap and simply take R there and then against the worn wood and chipped glass pane of the front door or if R could wait no longer and finish in a wet rush in his jeans, gasping E's name over and over—

Their journey from the bar back to their lodgings was a slow one; neither man able to look at the other as Enjolras' filthy promise cycled repeatedly through their heads as both men attempted to continue their _cool, calm, and collected_ façade: desperately pretending that neither knew about the vibrating dildo in Grantaire's arse—and that small remote in E's pocket remaining such a delicious temptation—and that the man himself had been on the edge of orgasm all afternoon, having been put there repeatedly and deliberately by the other; pretending that they were _not_ _even_ _aware_ of their _own_ illicit afternoon activities. It was a small subterfuge that helped them calm themselves down; a blessed relief from the hyperawareness that had Grantaire sitting on the edge of his seat, feeling every single accidental brush against strangers as they walked through the afternoon commuters and every jostle of the train and every separate tug and drag of his too-tight clothing over his damp skin, and, _Christ_ , _why did they live so far from the fucking bar?!_

To say that it must have been easier for Enjolras—not having been edged for an entire afternoon, nor tormented with a vibrator—was an inaccuracy that his pounding heart and aching chest sought to disabuse, even as he watched the passing stations from the window with calm and ease and long-practiced enjoyment. It was _he_ who had had his fingers in Grantaire's arse; was _he_ who clasped the shuddering man to him and watched the tip of R's erection smear precome over the hem of his shirt; was _he_ who had known, all along, that the dildo he was teasing his lover with had a small mechanism inside that caused it to vibrate—and, _God_ , hadn't _that_ been one of _the most delicious_ secrets he had since carried, even as he had buckled and buttoned Grantaire's clothing in place before they left the room. The long wait before that first press had been utterly worth it, if not for the spasm of R's body, then for that _look_ on his face when he realised what E had done to him—

The journey back to E's room was well-borne by both men; not a whit of conversation passing between them as they sat in the crowded train amongst the evening commuters and silently talked themselves out of their (rather imminent, if truth be told) fully-clothed climaxes, or even as they walked from the station with heads bowed against the evening spatter of rain and cold hands jammed into coat pockets again the chill: silence and self-solitude the best defence, until a sudden flash of exposed neck and shoulder during a sideway glance had Enjolras backing Grantaire against the door and balling his flannel in his fist as he began sucking a deep bruise into the freckled skin thus (albeit accidentally) revealed. To Grantaire, the shock of being pushed against that worse-for-wear wooden door was none compared to finding himself at the mercy of the other man's mouth—so often merciless and cruel in its deprecation of pervasively inadequate systems of socio-political rule—as it settled on the exposed stretch of skin between his neck and shoulder. 

" _Fuck—,_ " was the breathless comment, as E pressed his thigh between R's legs.

" _Soon_ ," was the _just-as-breathless_ reply, before that mouth was singularly occupied once more. 

Grantaire squirmed, his own hands clenching Enjolras's coat and balling the fabric he thus gripped in his white-knuckled fists. 

" _Please_ , Enjolras—" he whined, grinding himself into the man's thigh, " _—please_."

"When we're home, sweet _—"_ came the muffled reply, as Enjolras nipped his way up the man's neck; his left hand vanishing between their near-convulsing bodies.

"We _-ah!_  we  _are_ home—"R swallowed his sentence as E pressed his mouth against his jaw.

" _Upstairs—_ ," E clarified, a smirk in his voice, even as his left hand betrayed his promise and flicked the button on R's jeans open; thumb and forefinger catching the zip between them tightly, "—I meant  _upstairs_ , at home."

Whatever Grantaire might have replied to Enjolras and his pedantic wording was lost as he felt the zip on his jeans open; an unbelievable feeling on pressure on his erection for a moment, and they both stared, wordlessly, as the head of R's cock rose from between the teeth of the open zip; a pearl-white strand of pre-come leaking from the glistening tip. 

" _Fuck—_ " they murmured; E's hand slowly caressing R's swollen cockhead a mutually mouthwatering sight, and that gentle, almost _subtle_ nudge of his fingers on the sensitive skin made them both shiver in heightened anticipation. 

"Upstairs, _please_ —" Grantaire begged, clutching at him, "— _please_ , Enjolras"

"Upstairs, sweet—" Enjolras murmured, making no move towards the stairs, "—yes, _yes_ , we must upstairs—"

It would take several more moments before they uncoupled enough to begin making their way up the stairs; several more minutes before they stood apart, breathing heavily, fingers clenching and unclenching in an effort to stop their hands from shaking, to stop themselves from reaching for one another, again, and finishing each other off against the chipped glass pane of the front door. Fucking Grantaire against the front door was a sweet thought, a sweet thought indeed; the man looking gorgeously dishevelled as he closed his eyes and panted, but Enjolras had made him a promise, and he _intended_ to keep it. 

**_Right into the mattress._ **

"Are you coming?" Enjolras asked, gesturing towards the stairs; worrying his bottom lip in his teeth. 

"Not yet, _Christ_ —" Grantaire muttered, taking a deep breathe, trying to calm himself down, "— _yet_ —"

Enjolras huffed out a chuckle, running his eyes over Grantaire.

"Shall we?" he asked, slyly, holding out a hand for R to take. 

"Shall we _indeed_ —" Grantaire muttered, one hand massaging the back of his neck, as Enjolras placed his hand on Grantaire's lower back and followed him up the stairs; leading him through that gentle touch on his body, an utterly electric touch between the two. They fell silent again in their short walk, unwilling to wait for that moment when they would both fall past that point of no return, and be content to finish each other there on the dark stairwell. 

**_You'll fuck me_.**

"You're such a slut, Enjolras," came Grantaire's scathing remark in regards to the revelation of the man's revolting little bedsit; the wallpaper peeling and the carpet worn right down to the floorboards in certain areas. Such was Enjolras's dedication to creating bohemia from the ruins of their old society—or so he would say, even in the throes of passion—he owned little; next to nothing crowding the small space he rented from his pittance, save for a wicker chair that doubled as a clothes hoist, and his mattress. The mattress they were well acquainted with, though R could never fathom how the room seemed to diminish in size and content whenever they disappeared to the inn for a meeting. 

Enjolras shut the door behind him, hands reaching into the man's open jeans and cupping Grantaire with single, gentle movements.

"A slut, am I?" he murmured, mouth closing over R's left earlobe; sucking on skin there and teasing the exposed tip of his cock. Grantaire bit back a moan, closing his eyes against the twin sensations of the soft hands on his cock and the warm, wet mouth on his ear. His knees were trembling again, and he thanked whatever deity above that they were where they wanted to be; a mattress for their frenzied mating at their feet, and a bottle of cab(ernet) sauv(ignon) hidden somewhere about the room. When he felt E's clever fingers pulling back the foreskin on his cock, he felt himself soak onto the man's fingers, and did moan aloud.

"Huge—," R muttered, his leg leg twitching violently. 

"Hmmm?" came the long, deep reply; those clever, clever hands having gone to his jeans and were tugging them down his legs. 

"Massive—," he let out a breathy laugh, standing there before E in nothing but his flannel; his erection a perverted salute. 

"Hmmm" E hummed again, cupping R's balls with a soft hand.

" _Slut_ ," he chuckled, pressing forward into his hand. 

Their mouths met in a soft, wet kiss; a gentle touch of the lips that quickly deepened into something filthier. A result of the exertions of Enjolra's edging tease, perhaps? They pressed against each other once again, biting each other with a soft swiftness that made them both gasp as that liquid pleasure coiled low in their bodies. Enjolras's hands squeezed Grantaire's balls once; a pressure that made him break the kiss with a soft gasp, and lurch forward. They disappeared after, almost cruelly, which made R whimper pitifully, but E began to thumb open R's buttons in quick succession; exposing his chest and nipples to the chill of the room. 

"You don- _ah_!" Enjolras surprised him by pressing his tongue to Grantaire's nipple, and nipping it with his teeth.

"Don't what?" Enjolras asked slyly, smiling against Grantaire's chest.

"-don't own m-much, En- _uh-_!"

"Of course I don't," Enjolras said, darkly, "I have everything I _want_ -"

He lowered Grantaire to the mattress, and knelt between his spread legs. 

"-and _need_." 

He placed his hand on Grantaire's chest, and slowly pressed him down onto his back; R allowing himself to be manhandled into place.The light that shone in from the streetlights outside, through the slate blinds, cast long yellow stripes across the far wall. It was enough to reveal the faint pattern of the fading flowered wallpaper, and reveal how it peeled from the corners. Enjolras owned a small lamp, which sat upon a small pile of books beside the mattress. The small flame cast a white light through the room, and made their shadows appear in odd shapes, and dance across the wall.They kissed; a gentle press of their lips that deepened as Enjolras slowly pressed Grantaire down, flat against the sheets. R's supplication; the ease with which he always gave himself up to the man made Enjolras _so very hard_. It was a spectacular feeling, having E between his legs, and R smiled up at him as Enjolras shed his own tatty flannel and threw it into the far corner. 

Enjolras was the extrovert's extrovert. He was a divine spectacle, the delightful exhibitionist: a natural-born performer more than adequately adept at drawing attention to himself—as well as the Amis and their causes—in the best ways possible. The man could sell _anything_ to _anyone_ , were he to try his unique techniques on the rest of the unsuspecting public. A moralist to core, intent on changing the world, there was no way that the man would ever be able to take advantage of a situation in which the audience were not aware of the issues currently in debate; were not aware of topic under discussion. As such, his best performances (followed by his succinct, precise speeches) were, by far, his interpretation and oft-comedic over-the-top portrayals of those Wall Street magnates responsible for the GFC and the collapse of major economic growth across the world: those **_criminals_** , those **_neocapitalist bastards_  **who were _**guiltier than any person who had ever fought for**_ or _**claimed to fight for a truly viable system of economics**_. He was a wonder to watch during those performances, drawing cheers and whistles and thunderous applause from his captive audience, and though Grantaire always felt spectacular to be amongst the privileged few granted an audience—reaction and opinion in regards to the man's declarations—Grantaire never feeling more connected to Enjolras than during those moments he lay beneath E's gaze. Enjolras possessed the gift of intense personal scrutiny that could shock and isolate, and, yet, _arouse_ R beyond _any_ sort of physical touch. 

As Enjolras knelt between Grantaire's spread legs, knuckles slowly grazing down his thighs, R felt himself tremble beneath that dark gaze. It was a fine spasm that rolled through his limbs; a total shudder that _wracked_ his body with a fresh bloom of sweat, and making E bite at his lower lip as he smiled down at him again. The anticipation of the act; of the promised _**fuck**_ , _**right into the mattress**_ , aroused the both of them to a suspense beyond the physical pain of having been denied their orgasmic release for so long. Grantaire eyed Enjolras, joyfully taking in his exposed body: wiry and muscular, muscles tense with a whipcord strength that was never wise to underestimate. His chest was bare of a large amount of hair, save for a smattering of whitened hairs at the flat of his breastbone. Grantaire himself, by comparison, possessed a _clearer_  strength; more obvious with his build and height, and was dark in eye and hair colour: the two men clear opposites, like night and day when lying side-by-side. 

Without breaking their gaze, Enjolras reached out a hand, and snagged the bottle of lube he has discarded by the mattress, earlier that afternoon. The gesture was decisive, the following action simultaneously implicit _and_ explicit in that singular stretch of his arm. With a thumbnail, he opened the lid, and drizzled it onto the fingers of his right hand. Hand suitably slicked, he dropped the bottle by his left knee and reached down between Grantaire's spread legs with his left. The actions-having coated his right but reaching down with his left-puzzled Grantaire, until he felt those fingers brush against the end of the dildo inside him, and clarity overtook him in a dizzy cloud, punctuated by a lazy nod of his rather dazed head. Enjolras noted his understanding with a single nod of his own head, and began to slowly pull the dildo from his arse with gentle hand. 

" _G-ugh_ " came the glottal, throaty groan as R felt the dildo slide free; E placing it down by the lube, and R was suddenly _cavernously_ empty and _terrifyingly_ exposed. He jerked his right shoulder, meaning to roll onto his side, and try to cover himself, but flinched as Enjolras bore down on him with his body. Grantaire found himself pressed against the mattress by Enjolras's weight, and he was so sure he had never felt so _safe_ or _warm_ in his entire life.

Enjolras shifted his weight, transferring it to his arms, and moved down the man's body as if he meant to take R's cock in his mouth. It was not how Grantaire wanted to come, not after waiting for Enjolras for so long, and in a blind panic took a handful of E's hair, holding him in place. 

" _Don't—_!"

Enjolras licked his lips, his eyes on Grantaire. The grip on his hair was not particularly painful, but he did recognise the absolute desperation in the man's eyes. He nodded, shifting his weight as he moved back up R's body.

"Another time, sweet—" He said, gently, and Grantaire nodded, loosening his grip. 

"Yes, _yes_ , another _time_ —" His voice broke off into a moan as Enjolras settled on top of him, between his legs. 

"Later on—" that hand had returned between his legs, slick with lube.

"Yes—" Grantaire shivered as he felt those fingers pressing inside him again.

"—when we're finished here—" the dildo had left him _so very wet_ and _so very open_ , and E's three fingers slipped inside him easily. 

"G- _uhhh-_ " Grantaire shuddered, hands clenching the bedsheets; E's fingers pressing deep inside him, and the room was filled with the slick, wet sound. 

"Christ, that's _obscene_ —" Enjolras murmured, watching Grantaire's face as he fingered him gently, "—you're so _hard_ , aren't you?"

R could do nothing but jerk his head in assent, legs shaking. He was so _hard_ ; so desperate to _come_. He wanted to tell E so; wanted to tell him to hitch his legs up and fuck him already, but nothing but faint moans and breathy gasps escaped him whenever he opened his mouth. Yellow stars danced behind his eyes when he shut them, and his fingers ached where he grasped the bedsheets with white knuckles. 

**_You'll fuck me._ **

**_Right into the mattress. I promise._ **

"Please, Enjolras—," Grantaire begged, for what seemed like the umpteenth time that evening, "—please just _fuck_ me."

His face a shining, sweaty mess, Enjolras raised his eyes and met Grantaire's own; mouth slack as he took in R's trembling hands and thoroughly bitten lips. He looked down at his slick fingers, down to Grantaire's weeping cock. He was fully, achingly hard; his cock a purplish-red, with the head pulled back to reveal the glistening tip. A steady stream of pre-come was leaking from it, and his balls were swollen. He had been on the edge for so long; had been teased all afternoon, and he _beyond ready_ to come. 

"Yeah," E said, almost entirely absent as he raked his eyes up and down Grantaire's body; withdrawing his fingers in near-haste. His palms damp, hands trembling as he squeezed some of the lube onto them and gently slicked up his cock; Grantaire watching him through slitted eyes, almost unable to take in the sight of Enjolras pumping his hand in rapid movements, preparing himself. R only hoped he would prepare himself quickly, _desperate_ for the man to deliver the promised fuck. Grantaire knew he had waited long enough. 

Taking several deep, deliberate breaths and shifting his weight to one hand, Enjolras took himself in hand once again and lined himself up; positioning his cock against R's arse. He had paused, briefly, to take one of R's knees over his shoulder, and for all that he had had E's fingers in him twice that day, as well as that damned vibrator, R was still _achingly_ tight. The initial press of E's cock against that ring of muscle made R tense; his back aching as E pressed his cock inside him, that tight muscle giving way, and it took him several moments of fish-like gaping to realise that he was fully seated on E's cock, pelvis to pelvis.  

" _God—_ " Grantaire ground out, closing his eyes again. 

R was tight around his cock, but E withdrew fractionally before pushing back into his body; Grantaire's body accepting him again as a deep, almost pained groan tumbled out of his chest. That sensation of slick-tight-hot, God, _Grantaire_ , was almost too much for Eonjolras to bear; the quick slide making them both gasp. R's leg tightened around his waist. If hard was what he wanted, hard was what he was going to get; was what Enjolras was going to give, and he widened his knees to brace himself before fucking into him again. The short, sharp thrusts made R's heel slide against his back; the the long, firm pushes drew E's cock out of him almost _entirely_ , forcing loud and shaky noise from R. 

" _Tell me—_ " Enjolras gasped, " _—_ tell me when _you're close—_ "

Grantaire's face is flushed in the lamplight; sweat gathering at his temples and beneath his chin. The noises that he made were obscene, and had been trying to twist head to bury his face in one of the pillows. Enjolras had freed his left hand long enough to steal  it from beneath it head and throw it to the far corner. His head was tipped back, his thick hair whispering against the sheets, and he was mouthing wordless encouragement at Enjolras. 

"Grantaire, I said _—_ "

Enjolras broke off with a gasp as Grantaire wildly raked a hand down his back; nails scoring the skin in a ragged line that immediately began to smart. 

"Now _—_ I, _yes—_ Enjolras, I'm _—fuck,_ I'm _coming—"_

At his gasping declaration, E changed to deep, hard thrusts that made the old mattress beneath them protest loudly; that made R's thighs clamp tightly against his ribs. His head arched back, and he cried out—sounding as if he were in _utter_ agony—but he was fluttering and spasming around E's cock; rhythmic contractions that seemed to go on and on as a large burst of wet heat flooded between them, and then Grantaire was sobbing out Enjolras's name and clinging to whatever part of him he could reach, and Enjolras found himself kissing that rough underside of R's jaw, rubbing his face _almost_ _blindly_ into the man's damp neck in reassurance. It would be polite to wait until Grantaire had finished his sobbing; polite to wait until his body stopped heaving with orgasmic pleasure, but the dampness between their stomachs—and chests, Christ, _no wonder_ he was so _loud_ —and Enjolras is entirely unprepared for his world to suddenly lurch and slip sideways.

Words having abandoned him, Enjolras thrust again once, twice. Though R's leg was still tight round his ribs, it had loosened from its vice-like grip from moments before. That pleasurable ache in his groin pulled into sharper focus, and E suddenly convulsed. Again and again, his chest having wound tight until that first contraction, and he blurted R's name as he clenched his eyes shut; Grantaire flinging an arm up around his shoulders to hug him to his chest tightly as Enjolras blurted his name in a mixture of relief and ecstasy, almost _collapsing_ on top of Grantaire as he finished with a hoarse, harsh sob. 

There were a few blissful moments of peace and quiet; the world having fallen away from the two men, sharing a mutual silence as they both took deep, calming breaths. Enjolras, his face pressed to Grantaire's neck, could have fallen asleep where he lay, but the quiet thudding of R's heart and the subtle shifts of his body beneath E's told him that they were both owed a deep, calming sleep after the events of the afternoon, and that it would not be polite for Enjolras to begin snoring against his lover's neck. Besides being damp with sweat, they were sticky with lube and come. 

Though clumsy with post-orgasmic lassitude, Enjolras gently removed Grantaire's leg from his shoulder—taking a minute for the shaking in his legs to subside—and pulled his softening cock from the man's body; Grantaire making a soft noise at the movement, and rubbing his own eyes in exhausted happiness. It took another minute to shake the ache from his thighs and ankles—several minutes in which he pushed Grantaire's damp hair out his his eyes, and rubbed his knuckles against the man's cheek—before E slowly climbed to his knees. It took E several minutes to find his footing, and several more to locate a pair of boxers to wear to the bathroom— _God forbid_ Ferre see his cock for any reason ever again, accidental or otherwise—before he was tiptoeing out of the room in search of some prizes. 

 _Christ_ , the bathroom was always cold this time of night, and cracking the faucet so that it spilled a steady stream of warm instead of blasting out a hot spray and waking the entire floor with the clanging of its old, rusted pipes was always a mission of stealth worthy of a James Bond film, but E always succeeded, especially when he recalled Grantaire's sleepy grin from his nest of a mattress. He gave himself a cursory wipe, and re-dampened the flannelette. He now had a warm, damp towel for Grantaire—tucked over his arm on the way back from the bathroom—and decided that whomever had folded that duvet cover over the railing hadn't much use for it, and tucked it beneath his arm without a second thought.

Grantaire was dozing peacefully on the mattress, arms folded beneath his head. He seemed to have gone to sleep, but suddenly stirred with a jump when Enjolras returned with the towel and blanket, and the mattress depressed beneath his weight. 

"You're spoiling me," he murmured; a smile in his voice as E indicated that he lie back and allow himself to be wiped gently. Enjolras huffed out a laugh as he gently wiped away the worst of the mess of his chest; folding the towel once to wipe beneath R's chin and arms, and gently dab it between his legs. 

"No more than you deserve—" was E's reply, and Grantaire smirked.

"Wasn't that what you said about the-about that spanking last week?"

Enjolras grinned, balling the towel up and throwing into the far corner. The single pillow was retrieved, and positioned beneath R's head. E reached for the duvet cover, and spread it over their legs, tucking himself down under R's right arm. 

"I've said it about a good many things in regards to you, sweet."

"And a good deal more to come, I should think."

* * *

Work title taken from [Paint](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7pB1IcnK3Q), by _The Paper Kites_ ; chapter titles are the lyrics.


	3. This House has Never Been the Same as Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras comes up with a ... creative ... way to wake Grantaire up.

The morning tasted like fresh linen and lemon starch and that dry smell of Moccona Rich & Exotic Medium Roast coffee when it dries on wood after having been spilled; smelling of burned bread and Ajax citrus fragrance and and clove and something else suspiciously similar to the French cigarettes that Enjolras and Combeferre sometimes smoked together on the back stairwell—even though they both knew they _oughtn't_ —and Courefeyrac was busy stripping the old linen from his bed. 

"Ferre—," He called. 

"Hmm?" 

"Ferre?" Courfeyrac called again, a frown creasing his brow.

He'd heard the hummed reply, but was confused as to where it had come from; the hallway empty of any Combeferre-shaped men who, quite possibly, knew the answer to Courfeyrac's question, and were, in fact, smoking one of those cigarettes in the stairwell when they really shouldn't have been smoking a cigarette out in the stairwell—and a quick glance down onto the landing would have confirmed all of Courfe's suspicions, but it being only half-seven in the morning, the man was not inclined to be obliging and seek the other out; standing in the middle of Ferre's revolting room with the duvet wrapped about his shoulders as if he were an aged king, surveying his kingdom with weary malaise. 

"Ferre—?"

"Hmm?" came the hummed answer, only more insistent, this time.

"Have you seen the cover?" 

"The what?"

"The cover—"

"What cover?"

"The cover to the duvet—"

"What duvet?"

"Our duv-wait, what?"

"What?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do _you_ mean?"

"What do you mean _what do you mean_?"

"I mean _what do you mean_ by what do you mean?"

"What do you mean  _what duvet_?"

"Just that"

"What?"

"What do you mean _what_? I mean just _that_ —"

"Just what?"

"Just that. _What duvet_?"

" _Our_ duvet, Ferre. I'm talking about _our_ _duvet_."

"We have a duvet?!"

"Oh, for fu-"

Courfeyrac snatched up the duvet and stalked out to the hall; turning into the stairwell and finding, as he had predicted, Combeferre standing by the little window, and smoking a French cigarette. 

" _This_ ," he said, thrusting it as Combeferre.

"Ah, _that_ ," said Ferre, raising an eyebrow. The cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, as well as the eyebrow that inched upwards, made Combeferre seem like an aged, wizened owl. 

"Yes, _that_. _This_." 

"What are you looking for again?" 

"The cover. I took the cover off, and-"

"Wasn't it on the chair?"

"No, I moved everything from the chair."

"To where?"

"Some of it went to the laundrette; other sheets I fold away. One or two things I put in the bin..."

"So-"

"So what?"

"The duvet is either at the laundrette, folded way, or in the bin," Combeferre answered, raising an eyebrow. 

 _The think, Courefeyrac_ went unsaid, of course. 

"I didn't take it down with me, though, Ferre. I folded it and-"

"And?"

"-folded it, and placed it over the bannister," Upon realising where he had left it, Courfeyrac wandered back towards the banister, trailing the blanket behind him. From behind; his head being bowed as it was, made him seem (to Combeferre) like a small child who had been banished back to their bedroom after sneaking down the stairs to listen to his parents speaking about those little secrecies that adults often shared when the children were asleep. It made him grin widely, pressing his knuckles to his bottom lip as he tossed the butt of the cigarette out of the window, and followed him back towards their bedroom. 

"But it's not here now, yes?"

"It it were here, Ferre, I'd worry. It would mean that I haven't seen it, and that I am, in fact, losing less than substantial eyesight."

"...that's a _no_ , then, I take it."

"Yes, Ferre. That's a no."

"Where could it have gone?"

"No clue. No damned clue-"

"No one else took it, did they?"

Courfeyrac paused. It was as if the light had been switched on; the proverbial _I have just realised the most obvious solution to the issue as hand_ light. 

"Wha—Enjolras. You're thinking Enjolras."

"Enjolras, indeed." 

Both Combeferre and Courfeyrac stole towards the closed door in a fresh sort of silence-the kind where you hope to sneak up on your enemy doing something that reveals their schemes in a way that might make it easy for them to be thwarted-and put their ears up to the solid wooden door. The wood was cold and solid. Neither man could hear anything through it. 

"Can you hear anything?" Ferre whispered, and Feyrac shook his head. 

"Do you think he's asleep?"

" _They're_ asleep—," Courfeyrac corrected, referring to Grantaire, who was (most likely) occupying E's bed, "—and _yes_. It's _quite_ possible—"

"Let's check, then—"

"No, wait, Ferre—!"

It was too late. Combeferre has turned the cool knob, and the door cracked open. Now they had no choice but to peek in on the thieving men, perhaps asleep. They shifted themselves accordingly, and peered through the open door, gazing in at Enjolras's disgusting bedroom. There were clothes and books, of course; a small open bottle that had been cast to the side (three guesses and a prize dinner as to what _that_ was), and a neatly folded towel beside the lamp. Feyrac swore under his breath as he looked at the two lumps on the mattress, covered in a gorgeous sleeve of dove-grey.

 _ **Is that it?**_ Combeferre mouthed, pointing at it.

Courfeyrac nodded, and made a small movement, as if he intended to go in and take it. He fully intended to walk in, snatch it off the men, and make some loud and, quite possibly vicious, remark about Enjolras constantly thieving that which was not his; preparing a rousing lecture in his head, until one of the lumps struggled beneath the blanket, and opened its eyes. Grantaire peered blearily at the men, his mouth opening in a small O of surprise. He seemed to be struggling awake; shifting in the mattress, as if preparing to ask what the men might be doing there. It did not seem fair to rain such a diatribe down on the poor man, especially when it seemed as if he were struggling to wake up. There was no sign of Enjolras's tired face, or his mess of blonde hair-perhaps he was still sleeping under the blanket? 

His rage passing at the unpleasant thought of accidentally waking another sleeping man, Feyrac backed out of the doorway, Combeferre following suit, and shut it quietly behind them. They stood there in the hall, holding their blanket. 

"I suppose we wait?" Combeferre asked, holding his hand out to Courfeyrac. 

"We wait," was his response, as they linked hands, and wandered off down the hall to their room. 

* * *

"The sun is rising," Enjolras murmured.

"Hmm?"

"The sun—" E repeated, gently "—is rising."

"Hmm—"

"Have a look," Enjolras suggested, nudging him gently. 

Grantaire swallowed heavily, and, clenching his hands in the bedsheets, opened his eyes. He blinked several times, and lazily rolled his head in the direction that Enjolras had indicated. The room was beginning to beam with that soft early-morning pre-dawn light, as, through the window, the sun began to rise; casting tendrils of yellow and orange out of the ink black like smoke from a fire. It was picturesque, of course; had he been there, little Jehan might have mentioned the watercolour effect of the dawn over Paris, but that that particular moment, R did not, or could not, care a _whit_ about the sunrise. With another sharp inhale, his attention was both pleasantly and unpleasantly re-directed from the sunrise and back to his own body, beneath the warm sheets and expanse of bed that the two men currently occupied. Grantaire's legs; from where they were hanging over Enjolras's shoulders, twitched, and he dug a heel into the man's back as he rocked his hips upwards in a singular and demanding fashion. 

"Please," Grantaire begged.

"Hmm?" came the answering hum; a low chuckle following as Enjolras pressed a damp kiss to the inside of his thigh. 

" _Please—_ "

Enjolras huffed, and eagerly resumed his task, which was to lazily mouth at the head of Grantaire's cock. He had been ever-so-slowly and ever-so-slightly tonguing the length of him; curling the two fingers of his right hand  _inside_  R with gentle but firm insistence. The sunrise had surprised them both; Enjolras more so, having been deeply immersed in his activities and paying little attention to the world outside of the room for so long that the realisation that the yellow light of dawn had been creeping into the room whilst he was thus occupied had genuinely startled him. He did not know the time (7:02AM) or how how long he had been teasing the man above him, but knew it to have been an unbelievable length of time: intimate provocation to match that which he had placed upon R the last time they had been in bed together, an answering seduction to the use of the vibrator and the thoroughly sound fucking that he had later delivered his lover. 

" _God_ , Enj—"

With Grantaire moaning above him, Enjolras abandoned the fellatio for a moment—having been savouring the bitter tang of Grantaire's come while he could—in favour of scraping his teeth along his hipbone; pressing his fingers into his body with gentle curls and strokes, and occasionally brushing and nudging against that that small knot deep inside him, causing the man above him to writhe in the sheets; hips undulating in expression of his dire need. Grantaire's sharp  moans made Enjolras duck his head, smothering laughter, and scraped his teeth on Grantaire's hipbone. E enjoyed teasing R; enjoyed applying his tongue and teeth in a series of sucking, scraping movements that drove the young man mad, and _not_ because he enjoyed making R wait until he was ready to let him come, but because of the  _taste_. The taste, and the  _smell_. The smell of Grantaire's body, that smell of sleep-sweat, made his head spin and his mouth water. It made E want to swallow the man _whole_ and feel him rise inside him; chipping his teeth on all of those hard places inevitably worn into the kind-hearted and courageous when they faced a world such as the one they currently lived in. Enjolras wanted to savour those softer, more tender areas that were hidden-like springy dough, ready to be touched and moulded by his curious hands. He sought to save him and savour him; the gentle boy a saviour, of sorts, and for all his love freely given, Enjolras wanted to make him know that he had no designs on him, and only wanted to make Grantaire feel  _loved_. 

Enjolras had woken, as he usually did, pleasantly hard; pressed against Grantaire's back with comforting, gentle ease. It was warm, and he had felt snug and safe, pressing against R in contentment, hoping he might drift off to sleep, and re-wake at a more reasonable hour. Grantaire had made a noise at the back of his throat, shifting back against Enjolras; pressing himself back against E's morning erection, and that tight feeling had begun to settle beneath his skin. A tight feeling, giving way to an itch, of sorts—an itch in dire need of scratching, and Enjolras could only bear it for so long before he had to satisfy himself. Sliding a hand down Grantaire's body, Enjolras found him hard; R sporting an erection to match his own, and grasped him gently. 

"P- _please_ —," 

Grantaire had expounded upon Eugenides' theory of sleeping positions after having finished _Middlesex_ ; explaining them in depth and at great length to anyone who would give him the time and place. Enjolras had never listened particularly closely, but at that moment; nose pressed to that space behind R's ear, breathing in his unique scent and occasionally tonguing that gentle skin there, Enjolras was thankful that Grantaire was not a stomach sleeper. As it was, nudging the man from his side and onto his back, and _then_ pressing his thighs open—so gently and so slowly as not disturb his rest—so that he might be able to fit himself between them was _difficult enough_ without having to think about rolling R from his stomach onto his back, and E was fretting that he had woken R up; disturb his sleep upon rolling him from his side. Grantaire slept on, however; a light snore escaping from his throat as Enjolras settled him on his back, settling between R's thighs with practised ease. 

" _En-_ Enjolras, _I'm_ —"

R had awoken at the first strong suck, gasping out a surprised breath and moaning Enjolras's name. He was surprised, to say the least; heels skittering against E's shoulders as he arched his back under that wet, warm pressure, taking a handful of E's hair in his tired hands. R was never sure if E minded having his hair pulled and torn, but when he lay there beneath E's talented, clever little mouth, he couldn't help but take a handful of it and _pull_ —

"Coming, _God_ —I'm _coming—_ "

The grip in his hair tightened painfully; Enjolras closing his eyes as he felt R's cock spasm beneath his tongue, almost swallowing Grantaire's cock as he came in hard, wet spurts against E's tongue. He, too, was hard, and wrapped his spare hand around his own cock as he expertly worked Grantaire through his orgasm. R's gasps rose through the room, his eyes clenching shut as he came with a deep, gasping groan.

* * *

Work title taken from [Paint](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7pB1IcnK3Q), by _The Paper Kites_ ; chapter titles are the lyrics.


	4. It's Never felt Warm, Never felt Warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From there, the evening could go whichever way Grantaire wished: pinning Enjolras to the wall and having him slowly rut against his thigh, or going down on him as he clutched at R's shoulders and begged to him in a shaky voice, or—

Had you asked Grantaire, he would have put his burst of spontaneity down to him **_merely feeling the mischief of the night._ ** They had begun to indulge in two or three breathless kisses that they stole against any vaguely vertical wall that might have them; their slow collision of bodies having been brought on by that heady combination of smoking clove cigarettes in the warm evening air and sharing at least _three_ bottles of '06 cabernet sauvignon before _and_ after the meeting, which made for a slow journey back to Enjolras's apartment. It was as if the two men were _possessed_ ; otherworldly beings that were thriving off the gentle touch upon the other's skin. Seemingly unable to wait, their hands constantly stole under their shirt hems and into coat pockets in order to stroke and slide against skinned warmed to slightly sweated perfection. They broke no more than mere centimetres apart on their return home; their need for closeness a frustrating hindrance to themselves and to their progress towards mutual satisfaction.

It was not as if Grantaire had never _taken the lead_ —so to speak—during their moments of intimacy. Though unusual, it was not unheard of—: the act of dominating Enjolras, of Grantaire slowly bringing E down, even if it were _he_ who was on his knees, was a delightfully slow exchange of power. Having Enjolras submit to him; to R's whims, at his own will, was an experience unmatched by any other. Watching E unravel, whether beneath his hands or his mouth, was amongst the most _exquisite_ pleasures that Grantaire had ever experienced, and he relished every single powerful minute of it. Grantaire's submission to Enjolras was a _necessity_ ; Enjolras's submission to Grantaire a long-sought kind of catharsis, eagerly awaited by both men, and powerful in its minute occurrences.  

There arose a time, however, when that slow exchange of power was not enough; when Grantaire's desire to see Enjolras unravelling under his hands and mouth was too great and powerful an urge for him to wait for E to submit to him on his own time, and he decided to take that situation in his own hands. It was a relatively easy task, of course: giddily guiding Enjolras up the stairs—the other man believing himself to be in charge, and he himself leading Grantaire towards his room—before he would push E gently against the wall by the door, and, holding him there with the slight pressure of a hand on his chest, swing the door shut behind them. It was easy to press Enjolras to the wall and give him a kiss, a mere touch of the lips; easy to cup E's face in his hands and tongue his mouth slowly _open_ , their lips moving against each other in a dull, wet haze. From there, the evening could go whichever way Grantaire wished: pinning Enjolras to the wall and having him slowly rut against his thigh, or going down on him as he clutched at R's shoulders and _begged_ to him in a shaky voice, or—

“Well,” R murmured, eyes closed.

Their eyes met. Both men had that dazed look of the slightly tipsy, and a steady look passed between them. Their cheeks were red from the cold and the exertion of the climb up the stairs, and both were breathing as steadily as the other. Grantaire caught and rubbed the fabric of Enjolras’s shirt between thumb and forefinger. They lapsed into a moment of comfortable and enjoyable silence, adjusting their limbs accordingly so that they might press against each other, and Enjolras pressed his face into the crook of Grantaire's neck. The heightened eroticism had disappeared into one of quiet, peaceful intimacy; both men shockingly _close_ to exhaling a silent sob at the sudden intensity of the moment. They _needed_ it. They _needed_ this closeness, this sudden _intimacy_. Their urgency to mate; to bring the other to orgasm, had to wait. Demanding as it was, as their absolute need for other was, nothing could compare to their moments of silence, of gentle calmness. 

“Well,” E echoed, gently.

Having thought of it; having had the idea burst in his brain like a kernel of corn, Grantaire was suddenly intent on taking Enjolras's cock in his mouth. He moved his hands down to E's waist, thumbs stroking the skin beneath the hem of his shirt. The action brought their bodies closer together, and Enjolras pushed into the touch; running his own hands down Grantaire's side, eyeing him in breathless suspense. He looked into R's dark eyes, and parted his lips; tilting his head back against the wall. The action implied could not have been _clearer_ , and Grantaire smirked.

"Wha—"

Grantaire cut him off with a kiss.

"—are y—"

Another kiss, cupping the back of his head.

"— _doing_?"

Grantaire smiled into the kiss.

"Grantaire, I—"

The sentence was lost as Grantaire cupped his erection, his hand fitting itself over the bulge in E's jeans; squeezing his cock. Enjolras gaped at him, at the hand between his legs; making a series of low, deep noises as he pushed up into the hand. 

"Ferre's right, you know," R said, softly, rubbing briefly.

"A-about?" Enjolras stuttered, swallowing heavily. 

" _This—_ ," Grantaire, clenching his hand, "— _C_ _hrist_ , Enjolras, how do you _walk—_ " Enjolras gasped, shuddering out a twitch, "— with _this_?"

Enjolras's cock was a whispered myth amongst them; an alternative conversation piece discussed during long meetings, or whenever they smoked in twos and threes behind the bar. They knew that they weren’t supposed to know about it; the subject of E’s **_pants python_** * making Marius blush tomato-red and causing Eponine to giggle madly into her hands whenever it was raised amongst them, but having _seen_ what he had seen that long-ago morning—back when he and Enjolras first became housemates—Combeferre had hastened to tell each and every one of the Amis’, believing it to be of utmost importance that they each heard about, in vivid detail, the sheer size and speculated weight of E’s **_pool noodle_** **.

“I— _ugh_ " Enjolras grunted, hips twitching forward. R ran his thumb over his button, his eyes never leaving E's stunned face. 

"Hmm?" Grantaire hummed, fingers closing over the tab of his zip. He was teasing Enjolras-the man's particular weakness being that hand on his cock, rubbing him through his clothes.  Enjolras supposed that it was the _filthiness_ of the act that aroused him; of being grasped and rubbed and fondled over his clothing. There was no other feeling like that dry friction. It was an act capable of arousing him more than any other touch on any part of his body. He and Grantaire indulged themselves whenever possible: one pressing the other down into the mattress or against the wall, bracing themselves, and rutting with easy abandon. It was one of the few seductions that Grantaire could spring on Enjolras with surprise, and feel immense satisfaction when he watched Enjolras come.  

"I—," Enjolras shuddered again, pressing against R's hand, "— _please—_ "

"Please? Please what?" Grantaire asked. 

"Please just—" Enjolras exhaled, gritting his teeth, "—stop _talking_ "

"I wasn't _talking_ —," Grantaire shrugged, fingers closing over the button of E's jeans, "—I was _complimenting_."

"Same—" Enjolras drew in a sharp breath as Grantaire tugged the button through the hole, "— _difference._ "

He unzipped E's jeans to reveal his cock, firmly erect; hot and heavy with blood, curving up towards his stomach. Their mouths, inches apart, twisted into similar 'O's of arousal and impatience. Enjolras was impatient to come; Grantaire, impatient to _see_ him come, and they were both aroused beyond belief. 

" _God_ ," they murmured, their eyes fixed on the leaking tip. 

"Look at that," Grantaire murmured, stroking it with the pad of his thumb; a drop of pre-come welling under his finger, and Enjolras spasmed under the gentle caress, whining softly. 

"Please—" he whimpered, hips undulating under the pressure there, "— _please_ , Gr—"

Grantaire shushed him softly; pressed another soft kiss to his mouth, and dropped down to his knees. The single, fluid action surprised Enjolras, and he peered down at Grantaire with a singular expression of confusion. He seemed puzzled, even when R began to pull his jeans further down his legs, nudging his thighs apart in order to pull the fabric apart and down. It was not until R cupped his balls with his hand and peered up at him through his eyelashes did Enjolras finally seem to grasp what was on offer.

" _Oh_ ," He said, simply. 

"Oh, indeed," Grantaire said, softly. 

They exchanged another heated look, and Grantaire dipped his head; mouth ghosting over Enjolras's cock. The huff of his warm breath made E jump; banging his head on the wall behind him as he spasmed, choking out a small noise when R closed his mouth over the leaking tip. Hands taking a gentle hold over his thighs, Grantaire pressed forward, widening his mouth, as he sucked; revelling in that bitter tang as it spread over his tongue. Hearing Enjolras moaning above him, he alternated the sucking pressure. 

"God, Grant—, I can't h- _hol_ -" R struggled, fingers scrabbling over the wall.

Enjolras liked to run his fingers through his thick, dark hair as Grantaire went down on him, but at this particular moment, could not trust his shaky legs to hold him upright. He struggled for several minutes; one hand bracing himself on the wall, and the other clutching at Grantaire's shoulders. 

"No, no, _please—_ " Enjnolras begged, desperately, "— _please_ , let me _sit—_ "

He thrashed his head, wildly; indicating to the wicker chair in the corner of the room, bucking his hips and pushing himself deeper into the warmth of Grantaire's mouth. The sheer desperation in his voice made Grantaire moan; closing his eyes as he slipped his hand into his lap, clutching at his own erection. That weighty feeling of E's cock in his mouth, of feeling those slight pulses of come over his tongue, made him _achingly_ hard. 

"I need to _sit_ —" E gasped, sounding perilously close to crying; right leg trembling, wildly, "— _please_ , R, let me _sit_ —"

Grantaire ignored him, insofar as he pressed forward and hollowed his cheeks, almost swallowing E's cock; Enjolras suddenly giving a pained, cracked cry, as if his entire being had suddenly collapsed, and he spurted over Grantaire's tongue in a single wet movement. His legs shook, and he sobbed out something that sounded like **_Grantaire_** as the right nearly gave out.  

R waited; gripping E's thigh in reassurance, until those minute trembles had ceased running through Enjolras's body, and slid his mouth off his cock. The wet slide was too much for E—incredibly sensitive after coming—and he shuddered again; opening those incredible eyes and beaming down at Grantaire, hand still massaging his erection, and smiled at him in breathtaking happiness. 

"Your turn, sweet."

* * *

Work title taken from [Paint](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7pB1IcnK3Q), by  _The Paper Kites_ ; chapter titles are the lyrics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Courfeyrac
> 
> **Cosette


	5. There's Something Moving Through the Windows and Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What is it?" Enjolras mumbled; voice muffled against R's neck.
> 
> "Nothing of import—" Grantaire began, thinking of Enjolras' nipples.

**Sunday evening**

Enjolras gave him some time alone: three minutes, to be exact. Three minutes alone in the bathroom before he placed his glass on the table and mumbled his excuse and strode off in the direction of the bathroom. Three minutes was enough time for Grantaire to have to himself, wallowing in misplaced self-pity; having slammed his own glass onto the table and strode off in a quietly violent huff; that tension in his body radiating off him in waves, having been pulled as taut as a bow string for the past day and a half, and he was so preoccupied by the whole thing that he could hardly bring himself to slump back against the wall, whether in complete relaxation—O! to be amongst friends!—or casual disdain—ever the frustration for Marius and Enjolras—and watching R's retreat prompted Bahorel to turn to Enjolras, and ask if his friend was okay.

"He will be," was Enjolras' answer, even at a risk of _some_ vagueness. 

He gave Grantaire his time. Three minutes. Three minutes to mope, and sigh; perhaps even sob, if he truly was where Enjolras believed him to be, and, setting aside his own glass, made a brief apology to his companions before casually walking towards the bathroom. Three minutes was long enough. It was adequate time for Grantaire to have to himself, and consider bringing himself off without Enjolras' express permission. That ever-present dripping from the cracked tap greeted Enjolras as he walked into the Men's bathroom; the door creaking shut behind him, the only other sound being the soft sounds of Grantaire's appropriately laboured breathing. He had locked himself in the farthest stall. 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras called, slowly walking towards the stall. 

Silence. _Drip-drip_. 

Enjolras placed his hand on the door, palm-down. He could hear R breathing on the other side of the stall door, laboured and heavy, as if he had run a great distance. Enjolras took a step back, his hand still lying palm-down on the door, and looked down. The toes of R's scuffed shoes pointed towards him, indicating that he stood upright behind the locked door, perhaps only _contemplating_ the solution and how his difficulty might be resolved. 

“Sweet?” Enjolras asked, watching the shoes.

“There’s nothing stopping me from doing it—”

“Stopping you? From what?” Enjoys asked, lowly, stepping closer to the door again. 

“—from—”

E heard R swallow heavily.

“ _From_?” E whispered, his voice low.

“—there’s nothing stopping me from—I could—you know I could _wank_ right now; could _come_ , and you couldn’t _stop_ me—”

E heard the impossibility of his voice; heard the angst and worry in it, could almost _taste_ it. Grantaire had been on edge for more than a day; had been forced to wait until Enjolras granted him the right to an orgasm. It seemed as if he were shaking loose from his very core; was in dire need to shed his skin and find somewhere new to lie down, in all his hollow glory, and—

“I know that—” E said, slowly. 

“So what do you _want_?”

“I know that you _could_ come right now, with me on the other side of the door—” E rattled it for emphasis, “—and you _know_ that I know that it would be the perfect sort of punishment—” R huffed out a laugh, his eyes sliding shut, “—and I know that you _want_ to come right now; want it more than you’ve ever wanted _anything_ —” He paused, swallowing heavily, “—and I _know_ that your hands are nowhere near your cock—” R looked up, watching his hand as it braced the wall of the cubicle, the other resting on the lock, and he closed his eyes again, “—and you know that I know that your hands are nowhere near it—”

“And?” Grantaire whispered, his voice full.

“—and—” Enjolras hesitated, pressing his forehead against the door. 

“ _And_?”

“And I—" E swallowed again, voice catching as he murmured, "—I want you to open the door, sweet—”

There was a beat of silence, their rapid breathing and the constant drip of the tap the only sounds in the room. Enjolras steeled himself, waiting patiently. Behind the door, a mere few inches away; the toes of their scuffed shoes touching each other, Grantaire seemed to be deciding whether to listen to his lover, and whether unlocking the door, as E had requested, was, in fact, the right decision. The lock clicked, and the door to the narrow stall swung open; their eyes meeting: R’s red-rimmed and slightly puffy, fresh tear-tracks mingling with that damp sheen of sweat on his face; E's 

“I want to—”

“Of course you do-” Enjolras soothed, wrapping his arms around 

“I want to, more than anything, but-”

“But?”

“I couldn’t. I just—” Grantaire huffed out a sob, “— _couldn’t—_ ”

"I _know_ —"

R pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, sighing deeply. 

"What does _it_ mean?" He asked, wearily, closing his eyes as E ran a hand through his hair, "What does it _mean_ , Enjolras?"

"What does what mean, sweet?"

"What does my—what does—" it seemed as if Grantaire was tripping over his tongue at every turn; the words absolutely refusing to form a coherent sentence. 

"Slowly—," Enjolras urged, combing his fingers through R's hair, "—use your words."

"You told me _not_ to, until you _said_ , and I _can't_ —" Grantaire closed his eyes again, a fine tremor running through his body, "—I _want_ to, more than _anything_ , but I _can't_ , because. _Because_ —"

"Because I told you not to?"

"What does that _mean_!?" Grantaire insisted, shoving at Enjolras; struggling against him, "—what does that even _mean_!?"

"I—"

"Am I weak?" Grantaire asked, breathlessly; tears in his eyes.

"What? N—"

"A pushover?"

"Of course n—"

"Inadequate? Feeble? Spineless?!" His voice rose an octave, almost echoing off the tiles.

"No!" Enjolras barked, clamping a hand to the back of the man's head, winding his fingers through R's thick hair. His grasp was tighter than any sort of politeness could ever decree, and with a subtle flex of his wrist and arm, physically manipulated Grantaire into raising his watery gaze. Azure met sea foam; the two men looking directly at each other for the first time in almost a day. E held him there, his eyes roving over R's damp face. 

"None of them, sweet—," he murmured, pressing a kiss to Grantaire's damp temple. He could feel slight shudders wracking R's body, and tightened the grip he had around him. He intended the hug to ground him; to keep him rooted in a single spot, and reassure Grantaire that there was nothin weak or inadequate about him, and that he fully intended to allow Grantaire that mind-numbing ecstasy of orgasm—utterly intense after denying him from reaching the edge for so long—but not _yet_. He would grant him that relief, but _not yet_. 

 _Not just yet_. 

* * *

  **Saturday morning**

Grantaire might have known, might have even _suspected_ that Enjolras was in the mood for— _,_ or was, perhaps, _planning_ on it, simply because he broke their early morning kiss so quickly. Being somewhat hungover—as if he had a head _full_ of spiders—and still rather tired, Grantaire thought nothing of it in the moment, and merely buried his face back into the pillow. As far as tells go, it wasn't the most obvious, and had one _told_ Grantaire that he might one day be so in tune with a lover that he would be able to tell that his lover was planning something mischievously _intimate_ and wholly _erotic_ , simply by the length of his kisses given, well, Grantaire might just stare at one in utter disbelief. Surely it is not possible to measure the innermost machinations of a man; specifically a man such as Enjolras, moreso by the man's kiss? Were it _that_ kind of story, one _might_ just postulate any given theory in regards to soulmates, or proselytise on the subject of True Love across the ages, or even hope to convince upon those much-disputed theories of epigenesis and biological memory. Grantaire was given to suspicion in regards to the length of a kiss because a quick kiss-as his past experiences proved-was most likely the prologue to an afternoon of almost _unbearable_ intimacy, and it was not until he stood in the kitchen, watching the exposed crust of the toast brown inside the toaster, did he realise that Enjolras did, in fact, have a plan; that the man did, in fact, have _something_ in mind—

Grantaire's body felt sluggish, and ached in that way one's body ached when one had been up late in the evening (or early in the morning). It was far too early to be awake; too early for anyone at all, whether an artist and a poli. sci major or a banker and a lawyer to be up in the kitchen and making toast. It was too early to be sharing a cup of coffee and trying to make conversation, if one wanted to call 11AM on a Saturday _**too early**_. Neither man handled their mornings well, therefore, it was _far too early_ for Enjolras to plaster himself to R's back and wrap his arms 'round the man's waist, one hand sliding beneath the hem of his shirt, and the other cupping his cock through his cotton pyjamas. The gentle touch startled him, and pushed his hips into it, despite himself. Having felt that tremor course through R, despite their fatigue, brought a smile to E's face. He did not move away at the muttered entreaty; reaching out for the mug of coffee with his left hand, and reaching two fingers between the buttons of Grantaire's pyjamas, brushing his cock with a light-fingered touch. 

"Not now—," R murmured, tired eyes on the toaster.

"Why not?" Enjolras murmured, pressing his lips against the exposed skin of R's neck. 

"I'm, _ah_. Tired—," Grantaire muttered, pulling the toast from the toaster with a wince, "—tired and hungry and. _Ah_ , in need of coffee—," Enjolras had merely smiled, and rubbed the tip of his nose along R's hairline as he let his cock slip through the ring of his fingers with a dry slide that felt like a punch to his stomach; R moaning aloud, "— _ugh_. Coffee and quiet and—"

"And—?" Enjolras said, quietly, urging him on. 

"Stop talking," Grantaire begged, his voice rough; knife scraping the barest amount of butter over the crust, "—it's too _fucking_ early, Enjolras—," at which E smiled, securing his arms around Grantaire's middle and smoothing his fingers over R's shirt, "—too fucking early for any of _this_."

 _This_ being, of course, that slow pinch and roll of E's fingers beneath the elastic of R's pyjamas. 

"Toast?" R asked, and Enjolras shook his head.  _Too early._ Too early to _eat_ , to _talk_ , to do _anything_. 

"Coffee?" he asked, and E nodded, reaching for the mug with his right hand; the left returning to the pocket of warmth beneath the soft cotton of R's shirt. Grantaire retained almost excessive heat; able to sleep in winter without a thick duvet, or even a pair of socks. Enjolras suffered the barest of temperature turns, and leeched all of the warmth possible off his lover, trying to survive the mildest of days without shuddering or shaking or swearing about "the ruddy cold!" Such displays of anger towards light breezes and early autumn days made Grantaire smile like nothing else, and allowed himself to be touched and moulded and pressed against without complaint. He had work to do, of course, and the sight of his lover's erect nipples through the thickest of woollen jumpers was enough to distract him for an afternoon. Or morning. If R did not lend himself to his slighted lover, E was liable to have an eye out. 

R chuckled around his last mouthful of toast, and set the empty plate on the countertop. 

"What is it?" Enjolras mumbled; voice muffled against R's neck.

"Nothing of import—" Grantaire began, thinking of Enjolras' nipples. 

This intrigued Enjolras. Had Grantaire wished his lover to desist in his amorous touches, giving the answer  _ **not of import**_ was utterly incorrect, and bound to incite Enjolras to greater mischief. Enjolras wanted to know what Grantaire was thinking at every moment, and might ask him to explain his thoughts at any moment; the two men trading intimate thoughts and erotic fantasies about each other with each other throughout the day, and took it upon themselves to indulge in romantic excesses, were it absolutely possible that they would not be missed for four or five hours at a time. 

"Hmm," Enjolras replied, his mind made up. He uncoupled himself from Grantaire with only a small noise of protest—he was just so _warm_ —and stretched his arms; raising them above his head and linking his fingers. Grantaire watched his lanky body almost swell in size, depositing the plate in the sink as he did so. Finding the plate might annoy Ferre, but neither R nor E were in a particular mood to wash their dishes.

"Upstairs?" R asked, softly, and E nodded; groaning at he stretched his arms.

"Upstairs—," E repeated, and took a gentle hold of the man's right hand. 

 _Upstairs_ meant their bed; meant the bedroom, and time spent sleeping together beneath the warm blanket. _Upstairs_ meant the bathroom; meant sharing a hot shower, or taking a bath together and soaping each other's backs in the small porcelain tub. It meant sharing the small mirror and shaving side-by-side in the sink. _Upstairs_ meant slinging their damp towels across the banister and hi-tailing it back to bed before Courfe caught them leaving their laundry on the stairwell again. _Upstairs_ meant soft kisses against the locked bedroom door; meant cupping each other's faces as they kissed, gently, as they toed off their socks and shoes, and pushed each other down onto the mattress. _Upstairs_ meant Grantaire straddling Enjolras, and riding him to his finish; meant Enjolras pinning Grantaire to the mattress, hands clenching his wrists and holding him firmly in place. 

"What are you going to do?" Grantaire asked, almost nervously. 

"Nothing, yet—," Enjolras smiled, "—I just want to _see_ —"

"See what?" R asked, curiously, but Enjolras did not know. He would merely have to _see_ —

"See what?" Grantaire repeated, allowing himself to be manipulated back up the stairs, towards E's room. 

"Nothing, yet—" Enjolras repeated, biting his bottom lip as he fought the impulse to smile. 

 "Your nipples," Grantaire blurted out.

"My—?" Enjolras raised an eyebrow. 

"Your nipples. I was thinking of your nipples," R explained, "—because you're _always_ cold, and—"

"And—?"

"And I—," Grantaire paused, tucking bis bottom lip between his teeth. He seemed almost hesitant in the moment, and shyly cast a sideways look at Enjolras. The shyness was intriguing, and Enjolras fought back a smile as he turned the knob and the door swung open; indicating that Grantaire ought to walk into the room, and that he, Enjolras, would close the door behind them.

"And you, what?" Enjolras asked, intrigued, as he followed Grantaire into the room, locking the door behind them.

 "I'd like—"

"You'd like to take your mouth to me, wouldn't you?" Enjolras guessed, softly, and Grantaire moaned. He sounded utterly helpless, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand; looking absolutely and utterly (helplessly) aroused. 

"I—"

"—put your mouth on my nipples—," Enjolras whispered, closing his eyes, "—cover them with your lips, and _suck_ —"

"—yes, _yes_ , I—"

"— _bite_ them—"

" _God_ , I—" Grantaire looked a nervous mess, swallowing heavily; clenching his collar with one hand. 

"Hmm?" 

"Don't—"

"What?" 

"Don't do _that_ —"

"What?"

" _That_ —," Grantaire swallowed a moan, shutting his eyes, "—what you're doing."

What Enjolras was doing was—having slid his right hand beneath his t-shirt—slowly thumbing his left nipple with his fingers, gently pinching the bud between finger and thumb.

"This?" Enjolras asked, biting his bottom lip.

He waited until Grantaire had opened his eyes, and met his gaze with desperate, pleading eyes; waiting until they were watching each other, and, tongue darting out of his mouth quickly, licking his fingers with a soft lapping motion. That hand disappeared beneath his shirt again, and E pinched his left nipple with damp fingers. The result was a shocking jolt of pleasure that rocketed to his groin, and he moaned; a desperate, almost painful noise that Grantaire answered with one of his own pained groans. He watched Enjolras slowly pinching himself, hands twitching by his sides, and seemed to suddenly decide on his response to the visceral teasing. He took two steps forward, hands grasping the hem of E's shirt, tugging it over the man's head with clumsy motion. The cool air was another electric jolt on E's damp nipple, and he shuddered. 

"I want—"

"Yes?" Enjolras murmured.

"I want to—"

"What? Want to what?"

Grantaire looked at him, a small whimper escaping from his mouth. It was one of the most delicious noises that Enjolras had ever heard him make. 

"Will you—"

"Will I what?" Enjolras urged, encouraging him. 

"— _permit me_?" R gasped out, hands clutching at E's hips. He guided Enjolras back, waiting until his back hit the wall, and, without waiting for a reply, Grantaire bent his head, nudging E's hand aside, and pressed his mouth to the man's damp nipple. The wet warmth of Grantaire's mouth closing over his nipple—sensitive from his own tender ministrations **—** made Enjolras shudder, and give a sudden loud cry. 

" _Yes_ —," 

That scrape of teeth on sensitive skin made him buck his hips; grasping at Grantaire's own hips as he desperately tried not to collapse on his knees, and pulled on the hem of R's shirt, tugging him even closer. 

"— _please_ ," Enjolras whined, cupping the back of Grantaire's head. He hoped to guide the man's mouth, urging him to tongue his chest in a precise manner, and was rewarded with a series of violently sharp nips from R's teeth that made him swear loudly and repeatedly. 

"Was this—," Grantaire captured the bud between his lips, pulling none too gently, "—what you wanted?"

 _Not quite_. Not _quite_ what he wanted, but it was progressing towards a point eventually amenable to the both of them. With one hand fisted in R's thick curls, gently guiding his warm mouth, Enjolras slipped his other hand between them, rubbing a thumb over the buttons of R's pyjamas. Grantaire's own hands braced E's hips, fingers curling over the elastic waistband. Deft fingers slipped the button through the hole, and E's quick fingers the waistband, and tugged it down in a slow motion, freeing his erection. The pressure on Grantaire's cock eased, and he breathed a warm huff of relief over E's nipples. 

" _This_ —," E murmured, cupping R's cock, "— _this_ is what I wanted."

"Well, have at it," Grantaire muttered, cheeks pinking. He pushed his hips forward, rubbing himself against E's hand. His damp cockhead slid through the circle of Enjolras' fingers, and he shivered as he felt himself dripping into the palm of E's hand. 

"Not yet—"

"Hmm?"

"Not yet."

"What?"

"I said, not yet—"

"Why not?" Grantaire couldn't help the tone of his voice; the hard edge cutting through the air. 

"Because, I—" Enjolras faltered, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth, "—it's not—"

"—not?" Grantaire asked, his voice a breath rush. 

"—not quite what I want."

"Well, what do you want?" Grantaire asked, almost petulantly.

He'd have easily settled for tonguing Enjolras' nipples as the thrust and rubbed against each other; would have gladly fucked E's fist until he bit down on the man's exposed shoulder, coming over Enjolras, either way, in a wet finish and a deep grunt. 

"How do you want me?" He murmured, bringing their faces closer together; feeling Enjolras exhale in a warm huff, over his lips, "Hmm? How do you want to have me?"

"I don't—"

"You—?"

"Not _yet_ —," Enjolras added, hastily, "—I want you, but, I. _Ah_ —"

"You, _ah_ , what?"

"—I want you to _wait_."

"I am—"

"No, I—" Good Lord, was Enjolras _blushing_? 

"You _what_?" 

"I want you—," Enjolras began, deliberately and slowly, "—to _wait_. For me. Until I—"

 _Oh_.

"Oh," Grantaire said, simply. 

"—until I let you. Come."

"I, _uh_. I see," Grantaire nodded, "—and how long would you w—"

"Until I said so—," Enjolras replied, rubbing the ball of his thumb over the tip of R's cock; almost _feeling_ Grantaire shudder into the action, "—until I've  _told_ you."

"I sup—," R swallowed, his knees almost giving out, "—I. Yes."

"Good _boy_ ," Enjolras murmured, tightening his grip. 

 

* * *

  **Saturday afternoon**

 _How does it work?_ Grantaire had asked. _How do we do this?_

 _In whatever way you what,_ had been Enjolras' response. _You pick_.

 _I pick? I pick what? What do you mean?_ Grantaire had replied, distracted and confused. 

 _I mean that you choose,_  Enjolras explained. _How shall I have you? It's your choice._

_Oh._

_Oh, indeed._

Grantaire seemed surprised, and slightly forlorn, by the statement. **_Until I've told you_**. A daunting prospect, Enjolras thought. He had never before had the chance to choose one's (perhaps favourite?) particular proclivity in which to indulge, but knowing that one was not permitted to come during the process was a difficult realisation to face. Having only  limited their previous practices of delayed gratification to several hours of an afternoon (two or three, at most), the thought of pushing himself beyond that point was, perhaps, terrifying in itself. They had only ever discussed it once or twice; Grantaire softly admitting that it was a sensation that he did enjoying submitting himself to, and that he did trust Enjolras enough to indulge themselves in their respective positions (Enjolras making him wait; he himself having to wait). What they had neglected to discuss, however, was the length of time in which E would make R wait; the length of time between the beginning of that particular foreplay, and his orgasm. 

_Would you like me to fuck you?_

_Not if I can't come._

_Ah, alright._

Without having stated a specific length of time, Grantaire had assumed that Enjolras would only tease him for half an hour, an hour, at the most. Having only indulged this particular proclivity once or twice, he had never been sure what he would feel if he was forced to wait for more than hour, or two. R was not sure whether he could stand having to wait that long. What would it feel like? Would he be okay? What would Enjolras think of him, during that moment? They had their word, of course, and both men knew that they were free to use it if the situation was too much; the other immediately backing off and giving them their space. Grantaire had never felt the need to use their word before. What if he needed to at this moment? He was not sure, and slightly nervous. 

_Would you like my hand?_

_Ah—,_

_Or, perhaps you'd like me to go down on you?_

_Oh, God—,_ Grantaire shook his head, his hands trembling,  _I don't quite know._

 _Do you know the word?_ Enjolras had asked, seriously.

_Yes._

_Say it._

_Red,_ Grantaire had said, looking him straight in the eye.  _Red._

 _Good boy,_ Enjolras had said, nodding,  _Now—,_

 _Now?_ Grantaire had begun, and jumped, startled.

Enjolras' hands had moved down to cup his cock and balls as they had been speaking; fingers touching the damp skin of his cockhead, both shuddering at the slick, wet sound.

_Now—_

 

* * *

  **Saturday evening**

" _Please_ —," Grantaire begged, for, perhaps, the umpteenth time that particular minute, "— _please_ , Enjolras. _Please_ —"

"Hmm?"

"Please, I—," Grantaire gaped at him, mouth fallen open in a delightful 'O' shape, "—I can't stand th—"

He shuddered; body spasming under the relenting pressure of Enjolras' hand. Soaked with sweat; damp hair plastered to his forehead and neck, Grantaire was a writhing mess. Lips quivering as he back another moan; hips undulating without express permission; back arching at that hateful buildup of heat in his groin, he pushed up into the tight grip on his cock, breaking off in a new whimper when Enjolras loosened his manacled fingers, and smiled down at him.

"Hush, now," he soothed, tucking a lock of hair into the mess on Grantaire's head, "I have you."

"Please."

"I've got you, Gr—"

"No, no, _please_ , no—"

The hand returned to his cock, drifting down past his purplish, leaking erection; the long fingers of Enjolras' cup-and-saucer hands cupping his swollen, aching balls instead, and his sentence dissolved into another choked-off plea.

"—full."

Grantaire pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, biting down on his bottom lip. He was burning with the aching need to _come_ ; to just come, all over the hand that caressed and touched him and continually brought him to fulfilment, only to pull away and stroke at his damp face and hair and neck, reassuring him with hateful calming platitudes. 

"You're so full—"

Enjolras bit his lip, unable to hold back a moan of his own at he touched the sensitive, superheated skin below Grantaire's prominent erection. He was enjoying this. He could not lie to himself—Enjolras was enjoying it. This total, absolute control over the man's body, over his most sensitive parts of himself; suspended on the edge of orgasm for as long as he saw fit? _Gorgeous_. It was a resplendent feeling, akin to a Eureka moment when writing, or reading: akin to suddenly understanding that which was once deemed impossible to tell. Enjolras enjoyed touching his lover until the man was perilously close to the edge, only to pull away at the last second; that look of disappointment in Grantaire's deep eyes, the high-pitched noises he made when Enjolras tried to reassure him with a soft forehead kiss or cheek touch, trying to summon the energy to roll over, away from his lover, aroused him. Enjolras was hard—not so hard as Grantaire, of course, but _he_ had been on the edge of coming for, what was it now, almost nine hours? Nine hours into their play, and Grantaire had been reducing to a fluttering, pulsating mess.

"Please, _please_ —"

 _Not just yet_.

* * *

 

Work title taken from [Paint](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7pB1IcnK3Q), by  _The Paper Kites_ ; chapter titles are the lyrics.


	6. I've Seen it Before, Seen it Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is louder than usual, and Enjolras reacts appropriately.

_Red apples_.

Grantaire was shouting and moaning and yelling; almost agonised noises falling out of his mouth with every rapid rise and fall of his chest. With every rock forward, he threw his head back, hands clenching Enjolras' shoulders; with every rock forward, he slumped over Enjolras, his hair flopping over his eyes. His face and neck were bright red; sweat soaking his body as he rode Enjolras with a fiery vigour, a rarity in itself. Grantaire was not a loud man, by half: never a loud shout emerging from his mouth, save for the occasional swearword. He did not so much as gasp loudly during the vigorous fucking—shouting into the pillow or mattress when Enjolras deigned to eat him out was a different matter altogether. Of the two men, it was Enjolras who was the screamer. By contrast, however, the gasps and grunts that fell from his lover's mouth at this time were stifled and slow; Enjolras desperately trying to keep himself as quiet as possible. He knew that Courfeyrac and Combeferre were resting in the room next door. E hardly wanted to disturb their sleep, much less interrupt any intimate conversation that they might be having. However. 

_Red apples._

Grantaire was moaning. 

_Red apples._

It took all of Enjolras' concentration and power of will to clamp his mouth shut and suck harsh, long breaths through his nose. He dare not open his mouth, for fear of shouting. He was holding back; thrusting up into Grantaire hot, _tight_ body with as minimal movements as possible, clenching his eyes so that he might not see the look of utter rapture on his lover's face as Grantaire rode his slick cock with sudden, jolting movements. Enjolras was almost there; could feel his orgasm building, deep and low in his balls, and thought desperately about the bowl of red apples in the kitchen. He hoped that recalling the fruit might slow his arrival; might curtail his need to scream bloody murder as he ejaculated.

“Gr—"

“Yes, _yes_ , please—"

_Oh, God, red apples._

“God, R, _please_ —“

“Oh _God_ —"

_Red apples._

“ _Shush_ , Gr—," Enjolras swallowed, heavily, and fought to hold back a long, loud groan as Grantaire stilled himself, and looked down at E; right eyebrow winging skyward on his sweat-damp face. 

"It's not polite to _shush_ someone during sex, Enj—"

"—they’re next door, and—"

“—and, what you don’t—" Grantaire shifted, eyes shutting at the slow drag inside him, "—don't want them to hear?"

_Red. Apples._

“—no, no, I don’t w—“

“—you don’t want them to hear you fucking me, hmm?”

_Apples._

“It’s not—," Enjolras shifted, his fingers digging into Grantaire's hips, "—no, Grant—, it’s not—“

“—you don’t want them to how _good_ it feels?” he asked, and Enjolras gaped up at him; bottom lip almost quivering at the sound of the guttural _good_ that Grantaire grunted out. 

“No, no, it's not—"

 _Red_.

“You don't want them to know what it feels like—" Grantaire shifted again, hands bracing themselves on either side of Enjolras' shoulders, "—to have you _inside_ me?"

_Apples._

"It's not—not that _at all_ —" E snuck his hand up, pressing his fingers against R’s lips, "— _please_."

"Please—?" Grantaire gasped, tongue snaking out and wetting the tips of E's fingers, "—please, what?"

“Shush, _please_ , R, I—"

 _Apples_. _Red._  

"—please, just—" Enjolras heaved his hips, digging his fingernails into the mattress, "— _please_ —"

"Please what?" Grantaire murmured, leaning down towards Enjolras, "Please what, hmm?"

Enjolras opened his mouth, as if to answer; a shudder wracking his body as Grantaire braced himself on a elbow, and pressed his thumb down onto his tongue. Mouth opening wider at the press of his fingers, a choked groan emerged from E's mouth as saliva filled his cheeks. The movement had put him at a disadvantage; leaving his mouth open meant the chance of him crying out had increased, and he rolled his head against the mattress, as if to dislodge Grantaire's appendage. Feeling the wet flood of his saliva, Grantaire huffed, and cupped Enjolras' chin with his other hand.

"What is it?" he asked, lowly, sliding his thumb from E's mouth; looking into those wide, blue eyes, and taking in that halo of blonde hair clinging to his forehead. 

"Please shush—," Enjolras begged, quietly; swallowing a moan, "— _please_."

"Why?"

"I— _oh, God_ —" Enjolras shuddered as Grantaire clenched around his cock, "—please, _hush_." 

"Why?" Grantaire asked, again. 

"I need—," Enjolras rolled his head, peering up at Grantaire with an expression of utmost desperation, "— _please_ , I n-need you to h- _hush_."

"Am I being too loud?" Grantaire whispered, his mouth hovering inches about Enjolras' own.

"I—"

"Do you want me to be quiet?" R whispered, breath ghosting over E's chapped lips.

"I want—"

"I _want_ to be quiet, darling, but—," Grantaire shifted his hips, closing his eyes at the push of E's cock, deep inside him, "—I don't think I _can_."

To illustrate his point, Grantaire rolled his hips again; left hand closing around his erection and slowly thumbing the weeping head, a loud moan falling from his open mouth. His eyes never left Enjolras'; weary blue on wide green like the clash of colour in the middle of an ocean, and Enjolras moaned in response. As Grantaire slowly pulled at his cock, their eyes never leaving one another, they matched each other in moans and gasps; each man rising in volume as the other reacted to their pulling and clenching and desperate thrusts. 

"Oh GOD—" Grantaire cried, an almost-shout; hand speeding as he gripped himself. 

"—PLEASE—," Enjolras exclaimed; his voice riding on the tail-end of Grantaire's own exclamation, and he dug his fingernails into the skin at R's hips, "—PLEASE, I—"

"FUCK, I—" Grantaire almost choked, clenching around Enjolras' cock. 

"—FUCK—" Enjolras mewled, body shuddering under the onslaught of pressure, "—GRANTAIRE, PLEASE, I—"

"I'm so close—" R whimpered, right hand clenching in E's thick curls, "—please, Enj—I'm so close—"

His name, the bitten off _**Enj**_ —; a harsh keening from Grantaire's mouth, as if wept during mourning, sent a hot shudder racing through E's almost overwrought body. He spasmed beneath R, as if to throw him off, and reached a shaking hand up to his mouth, as if to push the sobbing wails that fell, without hindrance, from his bitten lips. Grantaire was crying out for him, seconds from coming, and Enjolras could not hold his immanent orgasm off any longer. He seemed frozen beneath Grantaire; anguish written across his red, sweaty face, and the moans he had been biting back fell over one another as he pushed his hips up _once, twice, three times_ —and they were both shouting in tandem and coming together with almost _astounding_ force: Grantaire spurting over his hand and hips, the word _**fuck**_ a deep snarl from deep inside his chest, and he slumped forward, exhausted. A galvanistic surge of pleasure burned through Enjolras' exhausted body like fire through fuel; igniting him in burning arousal until he was sure he that his entire body was aflame. Back arching and toes clenching, he felt himself _throb_ ; the thrill of shouting over and over, finally crying out in erotic relief cracked the safety-seal of his breast bone, and E was suddenly sobbing, head twisting against the sheets as burning tears slipped down his cheeks, and he dug his nails into whatever he could find until he was sure that he was drawing _blood_. 

Grantaire was reassuring him; a far-off series of gentle hushing sounds that would surely calm his heaving sobs down, even as Enjolras felt the final spasms of his orgasm wrack his body with bliss. He clenched his eyes shut, mouth twisting in post-orgasmic lassitude, and felt fresh tears track down his hot cheeks. A sob worried its way out of his chest, and he felt the soft touch of Grantaire's shaking hands petting and stroking his cheek and chin.

"Hush, Enjolras—," he soothed, "—I'm here."

Another deep sob, and his embarrassment about how loud he must have been shamed Enjolras, and he turned his head, as if to bury his face in the duvet.

"I'm right here—," Grantaire cooed, pushing E's damp curls out of his face, "—I'm right here, baby—"

* * *

Work title taken from [Paint](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7pB1IcnK3Q), by  _The Paper Kites_ ; chapter titles are the lyrics.


	7. You Left Me Living with a Lingering Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spirit of exploration dominating their bedroom caused Enjolras, one afternoon; the two of them sharing a mug of espresso and reading to each other passages from The History, to ask Grantaire about his most secret fantasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dub. con.

**Sunday afternoon; hand.**

The spirit of exploration dominating their bedroom caused Enjolras, one afternoon; the two of them sharing a mug of espresso and reading to each other passages from _The History_ , to ask Grantaire about his most secret fantasy. He did not receive a reply for the longest time; Grantaire staring at his hands as an embarrassed blush crept over his cheeks, and he seemed to have been biting his inner cheek. Deep in thought, wondering what it would be to admit that which he fantasised about, he seemed almost one hundred million miles away from their little room. Enjolras did wait, wanting the question; the implication of what it meant to admit that which he fantasised about only now dawning over him, to be understood in its entirety, but he  waited for a reply for so long that he found himself clearing his throat and about to repeat the question, even as Grantaire murmured, quietly, down into his clasped hands.

"I beg your pardon?" Enjolras asked, not quite catching it.

Éloy Grantaire's secret fantasy was this: whenever he masturbated, he pictured himself being spanked. Though he had no memory of being spanked as a child; his parents not ever believing in spanking as a form of punishment, nor as a type of discipline, he found himself thinking of himself, as a boy, being laid upon a knee or lap, and spanked. Hard. It had always helped him to orgasm. It was, R believed, the most embarrassing thing he could tell about himself, even if he were telling it to _Enjolras_ , of all of the people he had taken to his bed, and felt his cheeks burning with guilt and embarrassment. Having never been able to help himself when thinking about it, he tried to bury in some deep recess of his mind; though it surfaced whenever self-gratification was a necessity, and kept his eyes on his hands when admitting it. If Grantaire had never known what to do with this fact, what would Enjolras say of it?

Enjolras, however, did not see it that way. He merely nodded, his face serious; seeming to already know what to do with this new information. He poured out half a big glass of red wine, and made Grantaire drink it, slowly and gently. While R took his time with the glass, Enjolras cleared their bed of their books and clothes and towels, and began to tidy the duvet and sheets. 

_"Shall I be nanny?" Enjolras asked, folding a pair of jeans._

_"What?" Grantaire had been confused; not quite catching the question as he watched Enjolras clear the bed of their debris._

_"Nanny," Enjolras had explained, folding the sheets back, "Would you like to call me nanny?"_

_"Why would I c—"_

_"When I hit you?" he had clarified._

_"Well, no, I—" Grantaire shook his head, "Hit? What?"_

_"Or Mother?" Enjolras raised an eyebrow._

_"Jesus, no—," Grantaire chad huckled, ducking his head, "Not that. Nothing like that."_

_"Right, right."_

_"It's just s—"_

_"Would you prefer daddy?" he interrupted, abruptly._

_Grantaire startled, caught utterly off-guard._

_"Wh—?" he gaped at Enjolras,_

_"Would you like to call me daddy?" Enjolras clarified, as an odd noise eked its way out of Grantaire's tight throat, "—when I spank you?"_

_Chest heaving, he gaped at Enjolras, desperately trying to think of a reply. Daddy? Spank him? Jesus, was Enjolras really going to—?_

_"Well?"_

_"Why would I c—" his voice caught in his throat, shook slightly, and died away._

_"You said you pictured yourself, as a boy," Enjolras explained, gesturing him to put the wineglass down, "Did you picture anyone else; anyone in particular, who might have been hitting you?"_

_Unable to speak, Grantaire merely shook his head._

_Enjolras then pulled off all of his clothes, and made him lie down on the bed. He then turned him on his stomach, and started spanking him. Grantaire hated it. He told him to stop. He was wrong—he didn't like it. It was not what he wanted, after all. It was something that he had thought about, but was not something that he wanted; not something that he really wanted to happen. **Stop it! Now!** But Enjolras didn't. He kept it up; holding Grantaire down and spanking him over and over again, the flat palm of his hand slamming down with loud cracks over the skin of his ass. Enjolras cupped his balls, and touched his—admittedly aching—cock, and spanked him some more. Grantaire was furious with Enjolras. He struggled against him, trying to stand up. And then it happened. He moaned, and something broke open inside him. Grantaire forgot who he was, and what was nice or not. He moaned, and panted; face pressing down into the sheets, and when he finally came he came harder than he had ever come before, and cried out; spasms running through his body for long minutes after, even as Enjolras gathered him up into his arms and rocked him with gentle **Shush** ing sounds. _

 

* * *

**Thursday evening; belt.**

Grantaire was not sure if he wanted Enjolras to ever do it again; was not sure if he wanted it to become habit. Whenever he thought about that afternoon, he was scalded with shame. The potential for it to happen, again, was forever there between them. It was almost as if that expectation that Enjolras somehow knew what he wanted, even if he didn't want it; that Enjolras could take over again, and not listen to him, and do what he wanted _—_ forcing himself to admit that which he wanted (and, perhaps, even needed) _—_ was there between them. Something changed; something between them _did_ change, and Grantaire was unsure of whether it had changed for the better _—_

Until, one quiet evening; having spent the afternoon in a deep, almost _brooding_ mood, Enjolras stood up from his desk. It was casual enough: standing slowly, stretching his arms above his head. He exhaled in a grunt, the pull of the tight muscles a welcome relief. Perhaps he was merely walking downstairs for another cup of coffee, or a slice of toast with cinnamon sugar? Lying prone on the bed, and relaxing after a long, long day at work, Grantaire barely raised his eyes off the page he was reviewing; yellow hi lighter poised mere inches above the text, and from the corner of his eye, observed Enjolras folding his glasses and placing them on his open page. He seemed to be moving slower than usual, perhaps feeling the beginning of one of his migraines. Knowing that pain that his lower might be in, Grantaire folded the paper over, and looked up at him, mouth opening as he prepared to ask if Enjolras wanted the Advil from his bag. 

Enjolras unbuckled his belt. 

"Ah, _fuck—_ " Grantaire clenched his eyes shut, swallowing heavily. 

Fiddling the buckle open and sliding it from the loops of his jeans in one swift movement; the whisper of the leather through the fabric racing along Grantaire's suddenly too-tight skin. Throat _clenching_ at the gesture; muscles _tightening_ at the sight of something purely  _un_ sexual that it was like a hard punch to the gut. It was utterly strange to find himself breathing so hard, as if he had run up several flight of stairs; cock already half-hard in his jeans, and all Enjolras had done was undo his belt. Did Grantaire even know where the evening was going to go?

"Stand up."

Enjolras merely looked at him; blue eyes blinking steadily at him from the foot of the bed. Grantaire stared back, hardly daring to breathe. It was as if he were frozen in place; a startled deer-in-the-headlights gaze looking almost mournfully up at Enjolras, and the helplessness of his face; the _what is he going to do what is going to happen_ of his lover's most assuredly racing thoughts aroused him, a wild feeling of want bursting through his body when Grantaire slowly rose from the bed, legs visibly trembling in their low lamplight of the ceiling. He swallowed, heavily, and gestured with his free hand.

"Take your jeans off."

Hands shaking, Grantaire took a deep breath, and thumbed the button open. Enjolras cocked his head, gnawing at his lip with shallow breaths. Another deep breath, and R caught the tab of his zipper between forefinger and thumb; dragging it down the teeth of the zipper and exhaling with an audible whimper when the tip of his cock poked out from between the opening, already flushed and wet and leaking steadily. They both moaned, watching the trickle of precome soak into the fabric. Enjolras swallowed heavily when Grantaire swore, softly; sliding one leg free from the fabric and then the other, balls heavy and full between his legs, and almost fell to his knees when Enjolras folded the leather over in his hand. 

"Lie down."

Grantaire sat, exhaling heavily, and swung his legs up onto the bed; Enjolras nodding at him in reassurance when he cast another helpless look up at his lover. Lying on his front was difficult; his erection having made itself known, and he wriggled against the soft sheets, grunting helplessly. Rubbing against the mattress made him feel filthy, and Grantaire stilled his hips as best he could; a task made more difficult when he felt Enjolras place a steady hand in the middle of his back, thumb rubbing small circles into the fabric of his shirt. Grantaire tensed, despite the hand on his back, and jumped, startled, when Enjolras bent over his exposed ear.

" _Good boy,_ " he murmured; hot breathing ghosting over Grantaire's damp ear and cheek. _Christ—_ he was already wet with sweat, and Enjolras had _barely_ touched him. When Enjolras repeated the statement, Grantaire nodded in understanding, even as a small sob flowed from his tight, aching throat; an answer in itself. The hand returned to his back, and rubbed another circle, and another. Grantaire waited, thighs tense, for the first blow. He wondered what was keeping Enjolras, and opened his mouth to _—_

The leather soared through the air, and landed with a steady smack on his arse, and he slammed his mouth shut; back teeth grinding at the effort, even as he pushed his hips into mattress with a rapid, shuddering thrust. Grantaire heard Enjolras take a deep breath; the effort of pushing his face into the pillow, and cutting off his sight, sharpening his hearing with near-erotic consequences. The hand stayed flat on his back, even as Enjolras licked his lips, swallowed with his own achingly tight throat, and raised the belt again. Another smack, and Grantaire cried out, turning his head away; pressing his face into the bedcovers. This wasn't like being spanked. This was _nothing_ like Enjolras slamming his hand into arse over an over. This wasn't the same; was not the same sensation. The spanking felt like a punishment, like he was a naughty young man. The slap of the leather belt on his superheated skin made him feel like a filthy little boy, and he mouthed at the pillow; fingers twisting and pulling at the sheets in desperation. This? This was _better_ ; the leather striking a particular place over and over again, heating the warm skin of his arse and thighs, and turning strips of them dark pink, and finally red. _Absolutely_ better.

The sensation of the leather hitting his skin were so delicious, so singular in their occurrence, that Grantaire could only bear five strikes of the belt before coming wildly; pressing his face into the pillow as he shouted and sobbed out his climax. Enjolras dropped the belt as his feet, kneeling by the bed as he passed a hand over and through his hair, reassuring Grantaire with soft murmurs and gentle pets; his own erection momentarily ignored as he pressed his mouth to Grantaire's ear, and told him what a good boy he was. 

* * *

Work title taken from [Paint](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7pB1IcnK3Q), by  _The Paper Kites_ ; chapter titles are the lyrics. 


	8. How Little You Know, How Little You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys take three baths and indulge in a bit of hair-washing. Grantaire discovers that Enjolras likes a certain something.

Enjolras had two singular weaknesses, though Grantaire only knew of _one_. The first was gasping, was his desire to be choked; to have a firm hand grasping him by the throat, and forbidding him the need to breathe. This they had only explored once, accidentally, though both men had enjoyed the sensations and the sexual rush, and secretly longed to do it again. Were Éloy to ask his lover, the answers _**belt**_ and _**scarf**_ would be amongst the few things that Anatole longed to experience during their breathplay. _**Hand**_ had been perfect to start off with; Grantaire not quite remembering the power he had possessed, but it was another of the few items that Enjolras enjoyed the thought of choking him, so much so that it made him blush scarlet, and made his jeans _tighten_ at the memory of it. The former of his weaknesses Grantaire had exploited before; the latter being one he had longed to explore. It began with a whispered hint from Combeferre one morning, and would end with a warm bath on a chillier-than-usual afternoon. Revealed thus: Grantaire had not known how _sensitive_  Enjolras' neck was, but was soon to find out. 

 _ **Kiss his neck,**_ Camille Combeferre had whispered; disguising the hint as a goodbye peck on the cheek as he and Amé Courfeyrac departed Paris, heading for Bordeaux, for the weekend. 

 _ **Hmm?**_ had been the reply, confusion hummed as Grantaire kissed the cheek in reply. 

 _ **Kiss his neck, R.**_ Combeferre had murmured, having swept him up into the premise of a hug. _ **He** **likes to have his neck kissed.**_

 _ **I will,**_ Grantaire had replied, aloud. He had nodded at Combeferre, and replied  _ **And you have a good weekend, too.**_

Thus the direction was passed from one to the other without outside concern, Enjolras not suspecting their prolonged goodbye; Courfeyrac and Combeferre departing with a final wave, and Grantaire planned to test the request out: the two men having the small house to themselves for three days. He wondered what Enjolras' reaction to the action would be, and entertained himself with delicious musings on the subject. The two gentlemen enjoyed the solitude of the boardinghouse, spending some time of their first afternoon together writing and reading or continuing their private studies. Enjolras read _Beowulf_ ; Grantaire sketched, and both drank their coffee, mind stuck on the thought of pressing his lips to that exposed skin above the other's collar. He wanted to do it; wanted so _badly_ to bend over and kiss his lover and see what would happen, but the opportunity did not present itself. Busy as they were with coffee and private study, they neglected each other for that Friday afternoon, until a soft hand tucking an errant strand of dark hair behind Grantaire's ear made him look up from his sketch, a question in regards to motive re-arranging his features into a mask of subtle confusion. 

"Shall we have a bath?" Enjolras asked, fingers slowly rubbing his hair. 

"Please," Grantaire nodded, rolling his neck and shoulders to remove the ache of his muscles, "That would be nice."

Cupping his chin, Enjolras bent forward, and kissed him gently in reply; having stooped to reach the empty coffee mugs, and leaving them in a heap on the desk. 

"Shall I run it?" he asked, the ceramic clicking together. He was watching Grantaire sketch, tongue poking out in concentration.

"Hmm?"

"The water," Enjolras said, nodding in the direction of the bathroom, "Shall I run the bath now?"

"Oh, yes," Grantaire nodded, eyes on his sketch, "I'll be there in a moment."

"Very well," Enjolras murmured, as he walked from his room. 

The house was oddly quiet; the late hour of the evening and the solitude of the two men utilising the upstairs, as well as the lack of usual activity in the kitchen and absence of the glow of the wall sconce in the lower hallway, reduced the magnificence of the house to that of a vaguely creepy aesthetic, a la the Amityville Horror. Enjolras peered over the banister, squinting into the faint shadow of the downstairs area and accidentally convincing himself that some unknown horror was lurking in the cupboard under the stairs. He heard Grantaire cough, and hastened to the bathroom, lest he be caught believing in haints and spirits and all matter of supernatural beings. 

"Remember your Conrad, silly boy," he muttered, bending over the tub and turning the hot and cold taps with two sharp flicks of his wrists.

"Who's Conrad?" Grantaire was leaning against the doorjamb, rubbing at a charcoal stain on his sleeve. 

"Joseph Conrad," Enjolras clarified, sitting on the edge of the tub and bracing his elbows on his knees.

" _Heart of Darkness_?" Grantaire guessed, frowning slightly.

" _The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary_ ," Enjolras quoted, unbuttoning his cuffs, " _Men alone a quite capable of every wickedness_."

"Supernatural evil?" Grantaire questioned. He, too, had begun to unbutton his sleeves. 

"It's not of import," Enjolras shrugged, thumbing open his last button and sliding his shirt off. 

"If you say so—," was the reply; Grantaire half-turning his back as he unbuttoned the last few buttons on his flannel.

He turned back to Enjolras, a new question hovering on his lips, and was startled into silence at the sight of Enjolras unbuckling his belt, humming casually. While Grantaire had been busy with his own shirt, Enjolras had shed his, and folded it over the towel rack. A particular habit of his before sex, or bed, was to fold his clothing over the nearest object, in order to keep them without creases. Watching those cup-and-saucer hands fiddle with the buckle, Grantaire swallowed heavily; the two halves of his shirt hanging open, forgotten, his cheeks turning pink in the low lamplight. Unaware that he was being watched, Enjolras slid the belt through the loops with a single, whisping motion, and folded it over the towel rack, over his shirt. Grantaire's stomach tightened into a heavy knot, and he clenched his hands, trying to stop the subtle tremble in his fingers. 

 _ **Bite his neck**_ , Combeferre's voice murmured, and Grantaire shivered with arousal; an action that did not go unnoticed. 

"Cold?"

Grantaire jumped, startled by Enjolras, who was standing at his elbow, his left hand outstretched. He licked his lips, eyes fixed on the dark line of hair that trailed down Enjolras' torso, disappearing beneath his jeans, and cleared his throat in embarrassment.

"Hmm?" 

"Are you cold?" Enjolras repeated, gently tugging off Grantaire's unbuttoned shirt, "You shivered, is all."

"No," Grantaire shook his head, "Not quite."

 _Not quite_ was right, though the bathroom was unusually cold; the tiles making the bottom of their feet ache. Enjolras seemed to be, however; nipples peaking in the chill as he folded Grantaire's own shirt over the towel rack, placing it next to his; holding his hand, again; this time to receive Grantaire's singlet and undershirt. By this time, the bathtub was more than half-full, the stream from the taps a gentle enough pace that both men could undress themselves, and fold their clothes neatly on the towel rack; steam rising from the water in warm invitation as the tub slowly filled. One hand opening the button and zip on his jeans, the other turning the taps off, and Enjolras was soon pulling his jeans down, and off, his legs; standing naked by the tub, and folding his jeans over in half to place on the rack.

Grantaire put the lurch in his stomach and tingle in his hands down to lust—and not to incipient frostbite from standing near-naked on those damned tiles—as he watched Enjolras neatly lower himself into the tub. He watched, eyes wide, as Enjolras let out a satisfied grunt at the feel of the water; immersing his fingers, hands, and wrists, in the hot water in quick succession. Grantaire continued to watch, eyes just as wide, and Enjolras shut his eyes, drew a deep breath, and slid down into the water; knees protruding. Éloy Grantaire could not help but moan as he watched bubbles issue from Enjolras' mouth and nose, rapidly rising to the surface and bursting. Enjolras had immersed himself beneath the water for a moment, and was sliding up in the next, skin turning dark pink from the heat; pushing his sodden hair back from his face. He opened his eyes, and looked up at Grantaire, swiping his hand across his face.

"Coming?"

 _Almost_. Grantaire bit his lip, hands going to the button on his jeans, and pulling it through the buttonhole. 

"It's hotter than I'd like, but—"

"Yeah," voice pitched slightly higher than usual, Grantaire pulled down on the tab of his zipper, "'T's fine."

He half-turned again, his back to Enjolras, and slowly pushed his jeans down his thighs; his face and cheeks heating up. He could almost feel the weight of Enjolras' gaze on his back, those blue eyes boring into him, and though they had been sharing a bed for weeks—God, _months—_ disrobing slowly in front of his lover always left him both aroused and embarrassed. He was still unused to that intense gaze, faltering beneath it as he unbuttoned buttons and unzipped his fly and stripped off layers of clothing that he often used to help collapse in on himself, whenever things became difficult, and the act of stripping off; stripping pieces of himself away, until that fragile thing that lay at the centre of most of 'mankind lay shivering for all the world to see—for _Enjolras_ , of all people, to see, and he was still _nervous_. 

Perhaps, holding his balled jeans in front of himself as he wandered across the bathroom to the towel rack; cheeks pinking further beneath Enjolras' almost unblinking gaze, he did not want the other man to know, or see, that he was half-hard, and all Enjolras had done was undress himself, and climb into the bathtub. Grantaire stood at the towel rack for several minutes, shaking his jeans and checking for loose change in his pockets, before haphazardly folding them, and shoving them onto the rack with their other clothes. When he turned, Enjolras was still watching him, blue eyes steady. Pulling nervously on his thicket of curls, Grantaire stork-stepped into the bath; Enjolras shifting so that he was sitting, rather than reclining, and as Grantaire manoeuvred himself down, into the tub, Enjolras took a steady grip on his hips, pulling them flush together. 

He was right about the water, it being hotter than they would usually have it; Grantaire drawing in a sharp breath at the heat on his previously cool skin, and he moaned at the tingling in his toes, wiggling them to keep them from aching. His hands clenched Enjolras' wrists as the water settled over his hips and legs, and wriggled his hips in order to find a comfortable position; a motion at which Enjolras tightened the grip on his hips, holding him in place, and the reason for his discomfort as the writhing motion making itself known. 

"Sit _still_."

"It's _hot_ —"

"I _told_ you it was hot."

"—but I didn't think you mean _this_ hot!"

"It's not _that_ hot."

" _You're_ not that hot," Grantaire shot back, and Enjolras pinched his inner thigh.

"Ouch—!" he all but squealed, twisting in his lap and disrupting the bathwater. 

"Just sit _still_ ," came the amused reply, hands petting his hips and thighs. 

"I'm _trying_ ," Grantaire grumbled. 

"Not hard _enough_ —"

"What?"

"Nothing," Enjolras shook his head, "It was _nothing_."

Grantaire grumbled under his breath, and settled back against Enjolras in a comfortable recline; gradually adjusting to the heat of the water. After the initial shock, he was able to settle down, enjoying the warm water, and the lax position he lay in; Enjolras pressing soft kisses to his shoulders, and rubbing his hands and fingers against his tummy. They were quiet after their small squabble, basking in the warm heat. Extending a lazy hand, Enjolras reached out and snagged the bottle of 2 in 1, popping the lid open. Grantaire watched as he squirted some of the blue liquid—blueberry and lime—into the palm of his hands, and rub them together to create a lather. Unaware of his intentions; thinking that he was merely going to soap their legs, thighs, and, perhaps, his balls, Grantaire closed his eyes, thinking that he might be able to doze off—

Until a sharp tugging on his hair brought him crashing back from the land of almost-nod. 

"What—" he thrashed in the water again, momentarily brought to violent writhing by the scrape of nails on his scalp, and immediately shuddering still with a small, embarrassing moan as Enjolras began to work his hair with powerful hands. His erection, which had been flagging, returned to a state of half-readiness.

"Sit. _Still_ ," Enjolras ground out, working at the knots with force.  

"My hair is rather—," Grantaire grimaced at the fingers pulling on the tangle of knots, grunting at the firm pressure of the tugging, "— _uh_. Long."

"You ought to cut it," Enjolras said, working the soap into a lather, "If it bothers you so."

"I didn't say it _bothered_ me," he winced as Enjolras tugged particularly hard on a particular knot of hair, "I just said that it was rather l—"

He let out a high-pitched yelp as Enjolras pulled the knot of hair, fingers digging into Enjolras' thigh as he finally untangled it. 

"—got it," Enjolras said, smugly, "Should be easier to brush, now."

" _Prick_ ," Grantaire snarled, holding a hand to his head, "That really fucking _h—_ "

He let out another loud screech as Enjolras seized another handful of hair and pulled it, winding the strands around his long fingers. 

" _Christ—_ ," he hissed, closing his eyes.

"Still uncomfortable?" Enjolras asked, a smile playing around his mouth. 

The sharp tug of pain was slowly dissolving into something far more pleasant. 

"I w-wouldn't say. _Ah. Un_ comfortable," Grantaire said, slowly, sinking lower into the water; chest rising and falling with his shallow breaths.

Enjolras pressed his fingertips against Grantaire's hair, rubbing small circles into his scalp; damp mess of dark hair sifting under his hands. 

"This is what pampered housecats must feel like," Grantaire murmured, hand clenching his thigh. 

"Hmm," fingers rubbing briskly, Enjolras gently pushed the wet strands of hair back from Grantaire's face, and pressed a soft kiss to his temple.

 

* * *

 

Their second night alone, the Saturday night, Grantaire washed Enjolras' hair; swapping their positions from the previous evening, with Enjolras reclining against Grantaire, who was enthralled with the way that the dishwater-blond hair darkened under the stream of water, gently running his fingers through the ends to unkink the curled ends, and making soft noises of appreciation. Grantaire's reaction to his mass of blond hair always amused Enjolras; listening to the soft noises with a small smile on his face, nibbling on his right thumbnail, and recalled several delightful moments in which his oft unkempt mane had provided sufficient distraction to his lover. Grantaire took delight in rubbing the ends between his fingers, and brushing his fingers through it in singular strokes; a smile of pure happiness lighting his face when he pulled it out of the queue that Enjolras tarred it in and it fell about his face like waterfall, shadowing his openly honest eyes with a cloud of delicious mystery. 

Lifting the thick mass of hair, Grantaire wound it round the fingers of his right hand, soaping the smaller, softer strands that graced the back of his neck. _**Bite it**_. The cream expanse of muscle and sinew was mere _inches_ from his mouth. _**Bite his neck**_ echoed in his mind, and Grantaire swallowed heavily. He continued to soap the hair, scraping around and above his ears with his fingernails, working the lather into the hair with minute circular strokes. A drop of soap fell from his hands, and hit his shoulder; Enjolras reaching up a lazy hand, and brushing it away, fresh droplets of water scattering themselves over his collarbone. He bent ducked his head, and pressed a kiss to Enjolras' shoulder instead, scraping his teeth across the starburst of freckles that grouped together on the skin. 

"Soft."

"Hmm?"

Grantaire gave a gentle tug on the hair he was washing, to indicate that which he meant was soft. "Your hair, rather."

"Good," Enjolras said, softly, almost falling asleep beneath the soft ministrations. He shifted, clearing his throat, and settled down against him again. 

"Do you think you'll cut it?"

"It doesn't bother me, really."

"I can't picture you with short hair," Grantaire admitted, still scrubbing.

"No?" Enjolras smiled.

"Have you ever had short hair?"

"Once, when I was fourteen."

"Once?" Grantaire asked, surprised, "Only once?"

"I've not really had a proper hair cut since-" Enjolras grimaced; Grantaire tugging out a particularly stubborn knot, "-since I was, oh, fourteen?"

"Why not?"

"No reason," Enjolras half-shrugged, eyes closing in bliss.

"What—you're _not_ sticking it to The Man through the refusal to trim your ends?"

"No."

"You're _not_ sticking it to the Man by having long hair?"

"Why would I—"

"If you _really_ wanted to stick it to the Man," Grantaire began, rinsing the ends of his hair, "You'd stop shaving, too. Grow a long beard."

"I don't want to grow a beard, Éloy," Enjolras began, voice hitching as Grantaire tugged on his hair, "I don't like unkempt facial hair."

"—grow a long beard, keep growing your hair out. Become all shaggy and live off in the mountains, you know," Grantaire shrugged, "—that sort of thing."

"Why would I—"

"Keep _still_."

"—live in the mountains? I'd get nothing _done,_ " Enjolras complained, gripping the side of the tub as Grantaire smiled, busily rinsing the soap from his hair. 

"You could live wild and free as a shaggy-haired mountain beast," he suggested.

"I don't want th— _AH_ ," Enjolras said, hissing slightly, as Grantaire wrung the last of the water and suds from his hair, "— _that_. I wouldn't want that at all."

"It'd be peaceful," Grantaire murmured, spreading the damp tendrils of Enjolras' freshly-washed hair over his shoulders. 

"It'd drive me spare," he grumbled, "What would I do?"

"Lumber about the woods, taking on mythos status as an unknown European cryptid?"

Enjolras swivelled his head, staring at Grantaire in confusion; one eyebrowitng winging upwards. 

"Just a suggestion," Grantaire shrugged, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, "You're all done."

"Thank-you."

 

* * *

 

The third night, Sunday night, they merely _relaxed._ They lay together in the water, their legs tangled together; feet lying atop each other beneath the spout and tap. Grantaire lay prone on top of Enjolras, straddling his left thigh, to an extent: head pillowed on his left shoulder, and his left hand curled up under his right armpit. The water was hot; the young men comfortably quiet, comfortable in their chosen positions, despite the unyielding porcelain they were pressed against, and into; neither man daring to open their eyes to watch the other in relaxation, though it was was a particular hobby they both shared, with both hoping to enjoy the pin-drop silence and hot, soapy water. 

"This is nice," Grantaire murmured, eyes closed in relaxation. 

"Hmm," was all the reply Enjolras gave, his own eyes closed in similar relaxation. 

Lolling his head on his shoulder; fingers tracing soft circles across his right hip, Grantaire snuck a peek up at Enjolras. Eyes closed, his long lashes feathering his cheeks; soft pink mouth lax as he nibbled without concentration on his lower lip, his chest rising and falling in gentle rhythm. He had tied his long hair up behind his ears; loose tendrils curling around his ears and down his long neck, and droplets of water scattered across his clavicle where the damp ends dripped bathwater across his skin. Grantaire indulged his curiosity; smoothing his thumb across the small hairs on Enjolras' chest, and cupping his fingers, dripped a handful of water down his stomach. The small splash made Enjolras smile; the corners of his mouth turning at the soft pleasure, and his nipples pebbled in the chill. With minute movements, they pressed their lips together, exchanging a small, soft kiss; both men humming quietly. 

 ** _Bite his neck_** , echoed, once again, through Grantaire's head. 

Swallowing the burst of saliva, Grantaire rolled his head, and pressed his lips to Enjolras' neck.

He jumped at the sensation, water splashing in their eyes, and blinked down in surprise. 

"Wha—"

His voice died away as Grantaire kissed the same spot again; scraping his teeth over his skin, his left hands settling on his shoulder. 

" _Don't_ —" Enjolras' voice was high-pitched, hands fluttering on the lip of the tub, and tried to adjust his position. 

"Hmm?" Grantaire murmured, lathing the spot with his tongue, and he felt Enjolras tremble under him.

" _Please—_ ," Enjolras trembled beneath him, fingers digging into the ceramic, "—please, _d_ —"

Grantaire bit him, teeth gently pinching the pink skin as he pressed down, harder, with his lips. At the feeling of the teeth settling at the base of his neck, Enjolras startled; legs jerking at the end of the bath, splashing water over the wall and floor. He gave a moan, eyes clenching shut as Grantaire cupped his cheek and gently tilted his head back to rest on the edge of the bath, exposing the expanse of his neck. A muscle jumped in his jaw as Grantaire ran his thumbs over his neck, brushing the fluttering pulse point with his thumbnail. Enjolras opened his mouth; fingers curling through Grantaire's wet curls, hoping to distract him, when his mouth settled over his neck again, biting and nipping at the dark pink skin. 

" _Fuck—_ " Enjolras squirmed, water sloshing in the bath; his fingers digging into the back of Grantaire's neck, "—fuck, _please."_

"Hold still," Grantaire muttered, teeth working against his neck, "Hold _still_ , baby—"

He rolled to the right, pinning Enjolras against the porcelain with a grunt; hands pressing his wrists to the lip of the tub, and, as Grantaire straddled his lap, began lathing his neck with his tongue in slow, even strokes. Enjolras grunted, squirming beneath him; panting and gasping at the touch of the teeth on his neck, and desperately trying to throw Grantaire off of him, trying to pull his wrists free from the tight grip that Grantaire had on them. Both men were slippery with soap suds, and the sound of their wet skin sliding against each other filled them with lustful exuberance; feeling the rigid lines of their erections where they were pressed together at the waist. The sight of Enjolras' cock, heavy and red between his legs, with droplets of precome and water glistening from the tip, made Grantaire salivate. He tried to bite back a loud moan as he thrust helplessly against Enjolras; knees digging painfully against the bottom of the tub as he hitched him up against himself, limbs sliding each other as they panted out obscene noises. 

"Explains the scarf _—_ ," Grantaire barely grunted; mouth opening against the skin he had just bitten and nipped. 

Enjolras did not answer him, _could not_ answer him; rolling his head against the edge of the tub and turning his heavy-lidded gaze to Grantaire, a question on his lips. _Scarf?_

"The scarf, the collars. Everything buttoned up to your chin," Grantaire closed his lips over Enjolras' Adam's apple, scraping his bottom teeth across it, "No wonder y _—_ "

At the sensation of teeth on his sensitive throat, Enjolras stiffened; back bowing, his hands clenching into tight fists as he blurted Grantaire's name in a high-pitched voice that cracked the teasing overture they had fallen in, biting down on his bottom lip to prevent himself from crying out again. His legs, tucked over Grantaire's hips, and squeezing his ribs with heart-pounding strength, tightened further. Letting out another loud, sharp cry, he swore loudly; a sob catching in his throat as he ejaculated between them with a heavy, wet burst, and slammed his head into the side of the tub with considerable force. Grantaire swore as he watched Enjolras' head connect to the porcelain with a loud _thud_ that echoed in the small bathroom; right hand flapping uselessly as he tried to gather a handful of the man's damp hair and cradle his perhaps-aching head, trying to prevent him from doing it again.

"Ssh, baby," Grantaire soothed, pressed his lips to Enjolras' temple, fingers smoothing his hair over his ears, "I've got you, honey. I've _got_ you—"

He shifted, gently lowering Enjolras down against the bath, and taking some of the pressure off his _own_ aching knees. He lifted a cupped hand, stopping water into the shell made by his fingers, and began to wash them both down again. He had to grit his teeth, momentarily; his own satisfaction requiring delay as he cradled Enjolras' head, and pressed soft kisses against his cheek. Subtle tremors were still wracking his body; teeth worrying his bottom lip, tears still gathering in his eyes. He leaned into the soft touch, and made soft sounds as Grantaire cleaned them both off, and settled down at his side, petting and reassuring him. 

 

* * *

Work title taken from [Paint](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7pB1IcnK3Q), by  _The Paper Kites_ ; chapter titles are the lyrics.

 


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